


The Right Way of Falling

by wingsofcrimson



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4113195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofcrimson/pseuds/wingsofcrimson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>/One new message from iiiRaven/</p><p>Bran, son of the Stark family political powerhouse, has met with tragedy. While recovering in hospital, he finds the first glimmer of a power newly discovered. Only mysterious fellow patient Jojen Reed can help him understand his abilities and unravel the conspiracy engulfing his family. There are many ways to fall, but they never counted on falling in love.</p><p>A modern Westeros AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Many thanks to my wonderful beta Ledi, who is a real life saint. Without her help, this story would not exist.

He remembered how flying felt. He would never forget the sensation of boundless freedom that overcame him when he stretched his arms out wide as wings to catch the air. The gentle rays of sunlight caressed him like tendrils, inviting. The wind was more insistent, pushing eagerly at his back to encourage him onwards. The real joy was in that next step, straight off the precipice and out into open space.

He remembered falling too, and he liked that memory far less.

“Bran? Seven hells, you just let that Creeper walk right up to you!”

He awoke just in time to see the walls of his fortress shatter inwards, and the heart containers at the bottom of the screen trickle down to two. It was an accident he could have easily prevented, had he not been lost in a waking dream. He grimaced at the other boy, apologetic.

“Sorry, Walder. I must have zoned out for a minute.”

“I should bloody say so.” Walder growled with frustration. He was jabbing a sharp finger at his own screen, already correcting Bran’s mistakes. “Looks like we’re starting again. _Again._ ”

Bran didn’t really know why Big Walder bothered to play the game with him when he could hardly seem to focus on even the simplest of tasks. The freshly gaping hole in the wall of their new stronghold screamed of his failure. Dejected, he rested his iPad gently on his broken lap and tried to rub the delirium from his eyes.

He went on until the garish colours of the playroom mural blurred into one. The sun with the lopsided smile morphed into something altogether more sinister, a sadistic grin on its neon yellow face as it smirked down on the painted, frolicking children below. Bran decided that the children in the mural were having infinitely more fun than the neonatal babies who stared at them, wide-eyed, from their bouncers, or the toddlers with tubes in their noses fumbling with building blocks nearby. Across the far wall, a gnarled tree was painted from end to end. The swollen knuckles of its branches were decorated with red leaves, each one scrawled with a wish from one of the sick children who played beneath it.

The eerie quiet of the playroom was broken only by the clink of wood on wood as two of the other kids played a silent game of cyvasse. Bran noticed that more than a few of the ornate pieces were missing from the communal set. Here and there a dragon was substituted for a button or coin, the horse for an actual, plastic horse. The girls playing were younger than Bran but already had a much better grasp of the game than he ever had. They probably had half a life spent in an ICU to thank for that – all that free time they might have spent running and climbing and generally being children was devoted instead to mastering bed-bound board games. Better that than to lay there and think about death, he supposed.

They’d even allowed a couple of kids from the psych ward in today. Most of those poor souls never saw the gaudy playroom and its treasure trove of broken toys. When they did visit, Bran saw how the nurses tip-toed around them as though terrified of setting off some violent outburst, and to him it seemed ridiculous. He would probably lash out too, if people kept talking to him like a baby, the way the nurses did to the psych kids. Deemed fit enough to play today was Della, a fiery little girl who bit everything she could find. She liked to bite wood best of all, like the corner of the cyvasse table she currently had her teeth clamped into. She watched the game wordlessly, occasionally sucking the table as though deep in thought.

Accompanying Della had been Hodor, a giant of a boy who was as big as a man but had the brain of a five-year old at best. He was drawing alongside the kids from dermatology, looking ridiculously oversized on his tiny plastic chair. In his fingers, the crayons looked no more than matchsticks.

All around the room were never-changing faces, and Bran had grown accustomed to seeing them over the last three months, for better or for worse. If he didn’t know their names, he knew their ailments, and sometimes that was all the label you needed in this place. There was Ronas the mute kid, and Jaena, who had the hole in her heart.  There was Elrie, who was waiting for a transplant, and half-blind Little Walder, who gave Big Walder his name. Among them all, Bran was the crippled boy, the broken boy, but he would have given anything to just be Brandon Stark again, the boy who loved to run and fight with his brothers and climb until his head span from the height.

There was only one face today that Bran didn’t recognise. A dark teenager with sandy hair was glowering over a tablet in the corner nearest the door. He sat with his long legs drawn up against his body, as though he might be ready to pounce at any moment. Every once in a while, the tinny sound of music would escape from his earphones, and the boy would nod his head along with the muffled beat. Bran was watching him with interest, vaguely envious of the little world he was wrapped up in, when the boy suddenly looked up to meet his gaze. Bran stared back for longer than he meant to, trapped by that judging, green glare.

“Are you gonna help me with this or just sit there staring at everyone like a crazy person?”

Flustered, Bran turned back to Walder, stuck for a long, dumb moment before he remembered what it was he was supposed to be doing. “Right. Material gathering. Got it.”

Walder’s bald head shone like a polished egg as he dropped his attention back to his screen. “Keep that up and they’re gonna lock you up in psych too,” he mumbled.

It was difficult to focus on the blocky world behind the glass while he could feel someone watching. The strange teen still had his eyes on him. He tried not to think about it, and focused instead on the screen, where his avatar punched some trees.

A shadow fell across his view. “Alright, boys. I think that’s enough screen time for now.”

Standing over them was Osha, one of the nurses that frequented Bran’s ward. Her dark hair was falling out of the bun on top of her head and her eyes were black pits of exhaustion, but she was still the friendliest face Bran saw on a daily basis. She had a habit of appearing whenever he needed a helping hand, regardless of whether or not he had pushed that dreaded ‘nurse call’ button. Once she had found him snuffling into his pillow, overwhelmed with pain and frustration, and she had cheered him with nothing but a pat on the back and a silly nickname. She was an ally, although she seemed an unlikely one.

Obediently, he quit the game, but kept the device clutched close to him. Walder, however, was incredulous. “Not fair! It’s not like there’s anything else to do in this shit-hole anyway. Ow!”

Osha flicked his ear. It was a playful gesture, but Big Walder always had to over-react.  He scowled up at her from beneath eyebrows he didn’t have. “How come _he_ gets to use his tablet all he wants?” He jerked a spare thumb towards the teen in the corner, who was once again absorbed in his own business.

Osha cut Walder a dark look. “You just leave him be. Go on, go and play. Try being real kids for once.” As Big Walder shuffled away, muttering something idiotic under his breath, Osha gave Bran what he assumed was her kindest expression. She never smiled, but he always felt like he was on her good side. “Hodor needs a colouring partner. Go help him, Brandon.”

He nodded, casting one last glance at the strange boy in the corner before tugging loose the brakes of his wheelchair and setting his wheels in Hodor’s direction. Before he’d even gotten five paces, he’d managed to clip the side of the cyvasse table, causing several pieces to topple and Della to grind her well-worn teeth in annoyance. He mumbled apologies and struggled on his way, feeling as impatient with himself as everyone else obviously was. The wheels of his chair were cumbersome and heavy to turn. Once he found a rhythm on the linoleum floors of the hospital corridors, he could travel a good hundred yards without tiring. But fighting against the coarsely carpeted floors of the playroom had him breathless and dispirited by the time he reached Hodor’s side.

“Hodor,” said Hodor, in greeting. He turned back to his paper happily. Bran studied his chaotic drawing for a moment and thought it looked a little like a horse, if you looked at it from the right angle anyway.

He picked up a crayon and immediately felt a rush of colour to his cheeks when he realised he was once again being watched. How ridiculous he must look, thirteen years old and colouring in with a man-child. But Hodor looked pleased when he joined in, so Bran carried on regardless.

“I didn’t know you liked animals, Hodor,” Bran said, conversationally. He started to draw the straight sides of a castle. After a moment’s thought, he added in some tall battlements and grey turrets. It looked good. Maybe he would try recreating it in Minecraft later.

“Hodor,” Hodor beamed cheerfully, but that brought sniggers from their tablemates.

“That’s no animal,” a red-faced boy from dermatology said. Bran thought his name might have been Arnolf. “Just an idiot’s scribble.”

Hodor’s expressions might have been simple, but even Bran could tell he was hurt. “Hodor,” he mumbled, sullenly adding more colour to his masterpiece.

Arnolf grinned stupidly. He had a lot of nerve for an eight-year old, Bran thought. He tried not to give him the attention he was so desperately angling for, and carried on with his castle drawing instead. That strategy worked quite well until he noticed Arnolf’s little sidekicks had moved every crayon to the other side of the table, well out of his reach. They were watching him now in childish suspense, waiting to see how the cripple boy was going to handle the situation. Bran turned his dark thoughts inwards, and put down the only crayon he had as he geared himself up to lean out of his chair. But before he found the strength, Arnolf lifted the corner of the table briskly, knocking the last crayon to the floor with a clatter.

“Oops,” Arnolf shrugged, a smirk creeping across his cracked red lips.

Bran stared after it in dismay as it rolled beneath his wheelchair, and Arnolf’s friends tittered behind their hands. To say some of these kids were staring the Stranger in the face on a daily basis, they were awfully bold about their cruelty, Bran thought. His helpless situation only lasted half a heartbeat though, until Hodor noticed what had happened. Pleasantly, the giant rose from his chair, muttering his cheerful ‘Hodor’ song to himself as he walked, and bent to pick up the runaway crayon.

“Oi!” Came a sudden cry from Arnolf. “You kicked my chair, you big oaf!”

Bran had been watching – Hodor hadn’t come anywhere close to the other boy, let alone his chair. But that didn’t stop Arnolf from reaching across and skimming Hodor’s drawing papers clean off the table in revenge. The scribble-horse fluttered to the ground, and Hodor watched it go with large, sad eyes.

Then something flashed across him, something dark and primal. Hodor erupted suddenly. He roared like a beast, and his enormous arms flew up into the air.

Bran wheeled backwards clumsily, away from the rampaging boy. Paper flew into the air, crumpled by Hodor’s angry fists. Splinters of wax rained down as he snapped the crayons in two.

“Hodor!” Bran appealed to him, but Hodor was lost in his anger. The table upended, and Arnolf’s friends scarpered away as fast as their frail legs could carry them. The nurses came scurrying like mice from doors on every side of the room, but none of them would be there in time. Hodor had already grabbed Arnolf by the scruff of his neck and was about to jerk him backwards into arm’s reach. The smaller boy scrambled, and Bran instinctively tried to dash forwards to wrestle him free. His legs wouldn’t move of course, and he was met instead by a vicious pain that shot up his spine. He watched on, powerless, as Hodor lifted Arnolf clear of the ground. The giant’s eyes were glazed like mist, his huge body trembling with a rage his mind didn’t seem to comprehend.

“He’s gonna kill me!” Arnolf squealed, writhing to escape.

Bran’s body was broken, but his mind was whole. With all his attention on Hodor, he cried out again, “Put him down! Stop, Hodor!”

Hodor froze. Bran would have rejoiced, if he had been there to watch, but his body was crumpled in his wheelchair and his mind was flying free. He got a brief impression of a huge, blank landscape, a minefield of confusing thoughts and feelings that bubbled just below the surface. He saw Arnolf’s terrified face through Hodor’s eyes, and felt Arnolf’s sweat dripping on to Hodor’s hand. It would be easy to snap the bully’s neck in two with just a simple twist of his fingers. He toyed with the idea, and then loosened his grip.

Arnolf fell to the floor, finally freed, and in the same moment, Bran was reeling back into his own body like a fish hooked swiftly from a lake. A screech of something otherworldly – a bird, maybe – deafened him completely. He felt as dizzy as the time his brother Robb had grabbed him by the forearms and spun him in wide circles until he screamed to be put down. The sudden memory was a welcome one, something to seize on to that was his own and not something of Hodor’s. For a confusing moment, he could almost believe he had _been_ Hodor.

The nurses converged upon the scene. Arnolf was sniffling like a baby as they bundled him up back to his ward. Hodor looked nothing but blank, arm still outstretched as though seizing Arnolf’s phantom. Two of the psych nurses were talking him down with their quiet, soothing voices as they led him out of the playroom. He towered over them by at least a foot, but in that moment he seemed nothing but a lamb; meek and compliant, but most of all, afraid.

“You alright, little lord?”

That nickname. It was Osha; she touching his hand gently and bending to check on him more closely. He tried to reply but his tongue felt numb, as though he couldn’t quite remember how to make it work. He nodded instead, and with a reassuring pat, she disappeared to help the other victims of Hodor’s tirade.

The room was in so much turmoil that he didn’t notice someone else approach him. The first warning he had was the sight of his iPad being slid gently back on to his lap. He stared at it, still half-absent.

“You dropped this. Lucky it didn’t break.”

Stood over him was the dark teen from earlier, his earphones finally tucked away. His moss green eyes were wildly intrusive, and the way he half-smiled at Bran suggested he had somehow seen what Bran had just done, in the landscape of Hodor’s mind.

“Oh, um… thanks,” Bran managed to stutter.

The older boy gave an effortless shrug and strode away without another word. Bran watched him leave the room, marvelling at how he swanned through the ensuing chaos without so much as flinching.

When he turned back to his iPad, lighting up the screen to check for any cracks, he noticed the iiiRaven app was open. On the bottom of his contact list was a new addition:

 _User: DreamInGreen_  
_Location: Riverrun Children’s Hospital_  
_Contact name: Jojen Reed._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for joining me for chapter 2! My aim is to upload a new chapter biweekly, on Thursdays. As usual, any kudos or reviews would be greatly appreciated and help keep me chugging along with the writing :)

 

When he was finally alone, Bran sighed a sigh that began in the very heart of him. The day’s physiotherapy had been strenuous, and every muscle in his arms and shoulders burned caustically. The cold, metal cot he had for a bed was enough to make him wish for home. He could feel every spring in the thin mattress like it was a bed of nails, though at least his legs were spared the pain. He breathed deeply through the discomfort, slowly in and out, with nothing else to focus on but the sterile, white ceiling. He had the luxury of a private room, unlike some of the other children, though he knew he had only his father’s reputation to thank for that.

When he woke up there, three long months ago, the room had been bare as a cell. But since that day, the flowers and cards and balloons had almost choked him out of bed as people came to visit and bring their well wishes. The fact that there were none before that spoke volumes about their prospects for him. And maybe he _should_ have died, just slipped away peacefully as he lay in his long coma. While he slept, all he did was dream of flying. Maybe if he’d spread his wings and soared into the sun, he would never have woken up to all this pain and humiliation that seemed to comprise his daily life now.

Tears threatened, and he balled his fists until they blurred away to nothing. That was always where lying there thinking got him, all what ifs and should have dones. He needed a distraction. He glanced around for his iPad and spotted it blinking merrily on his nightstand. He reached out to grasp the corner and fell short by an inch. One of the nurses must have moved it when they were fussing around him earlier. He sighed once more, taking another exaggerated swipe at the device. He missed, and his shoulder cramped painfully. He wanted to curl up and bury his head until the ache had passed, but his useless legs wouldn’t even allow him that. The ‘nurse call’ button swung enticingly near his head, but the thought of reaching out for it vanished as quickly as it occurred to him. If he couldn’t even do _that_ much for himself, he was truly lost.

He closed his eyes and breathed until the pain dulled, then prepared himself to roll on to his side. Using his arms he could usually manage the manoeuvre, but it always, always hurt. The iPad screen flickered again, beckoning his attention. He managed to lift his head just enough to see it was the iiiRaven app that was flashing insistently. It was a message from someone. Ever since the day in the playroom, the new screen name on his contacts list, that _DreamInGreen_ , had remained greyed out, dormant. Maybe he was finally ready to talk, that older boy with the invasive green eyes…

Bran pulled himself over quickly before he lost his nerve. The agony was fierce, but when he reached out his hand, he touched the corner of the tablet. But he couldn’t stop himself from going, and his body propelled itself too far forward, pushing the iPad once more out of reach and leaving him trapped painfully, face down, against the metal bars of his bed.

He would have cried out in frustration, but the door to his room opened suddenly. Though he couldn’t see who had entered, he would have known those voices anywhere.

“Bran? Are you alright?” His mother called to him, panicked. Suddenly her hands were on his shoulder. “Help me turn him over, Robb.”

His brother’s highly-polished shoes appeared at the side of his bed, and Bran felt strong arms lift him as though he was nothing but a baby again. Placed softly into his nest of pillows, his mother descended on him, hands fussing over his brow.

“What happened, you silly boy?” she asked affectionately, her eyes dancing over every last fibre of him. “Had you been there for long? Why didn’t you call for help?”

Bran forced a tight smile. He hated to see his mother worry, but it seemed to be all she did those days. “It just happened. I’m fine, honestly. Thanks, Robb.”

Robb nodded to him, a genuine smile on his long face that seemed suddenly so grown-up compared to Bran’s memories of him. In the six months since Bran’s fall, Robb had flourished from being an awkward older brother to a man in his own right. He was following in their father’s footsteps, pursuing a political career, and for someone of his young age, he was rousing quite a bit of support. “We just spoke to the doctor. He said your physio is going well. Looks like you’ll be joining us for this wedding after all.”

His mother gave Bran’s hand a firm squeeze. “Sansa will be so pleased. Joffrey too, I expect.”

Bran made a face at the mention of his sister’s fiancé. He’d only met Joff a handful of times, but he already knew he didn’t like him. He was too sure of himself and his family name, and that wasn’t even to mention his creepy smile.

“Brandon!” His mother scolded. “I’ve warned you about that. Be nice.”

He pouted. “Why should I?”

“It’s Sansa’s choice to marry Joffrey,” Robb said, pulling up a chair. “We have to be supportive of her, as a family.”

Bran tried his best to look apologetic, but he suppressed a smile. Secretly he’d missed their scolding during his long, lonely time in the hospital. Sansa had told him that while he was unconscious, their mother had never left his side. These days, she visited less frequently, what with having his siblings to take care of back at home in Winterfell. His father’s presence was even more of a rarity. He was constantly distracted by his parliamentary position in King’s Landing, so Robb was usually the one to come in his place.

“Of course you’d say that,” Bran said, seizing the opportunity to tease his brother.  “At least she’s not getting married in secret, unlike _somebody_.”

A little pinkness came to Robb’s cheeks, and he dodged one of their mother’s disparaging glances. While Bran lay unconscious, Robb had almost committed his career to an early grave by marrying out of the blue. Apparently his marriage to pretty Jeyne Westerling had gone against the image Robb was relying on to win elections. Their mother had tried to explain the severity of the situation to Bran, but he couldn’t understand. He saw the way Jeyne made Robb glow, and didn’t his brother deserve that kind of happiness?

“Did the doctors say… anything else?” he asked tentatively.

The two of them exchanged a look. They must have known what he was really asking. _What about my legs? Will I ever walk again?_

“They said…” his mother paused to give him a watery smile. “They said your upper body strength is returning nicely. Once you’re a bit stronger, you can come home. Isn’t that good news?”

Bran didn’t know how to answer. Of course it was good news. He could go home, and soon. But there was no escaping the fact that he was going home broken. There were things he would never be able to do again, places he could never go again, like that old construction site where he and his little brother liked to play.

“How’s Rickon?” Bran asked, desperately searching for a change of subject.

“He’s more or less himself again,” Robb answered, to the sleeves of his suit jacket. “He’s been asking about you.”

“Even after what happened?” Bran blurted out, and an uncomfortable silence settled between them all. Everyone was always keen to discuss his recovery, but they never wanted to mention the events leading up to it. The question sat for a long full moment before Robb awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Do you need anything? I have a few minutes, I can pop out and-“

“It’s fine, Robb. I’m fine,” Bran said. Being ‘fine’ was starting to become a catchphrase. Even if he didn’t particularly feel fine, not inside, not outside, not any side. But he couldn’t deepen those worry lines on his mother’s forehead any further, so he would tell them he was fine until he was blue in the face if he had to. “You’re probably busy,” he said as he caught his brother checking his watch. “You don’t have to stay.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Robb replied, flustered.

“I know,” Bran forced a smile. “You should be back at Winterfell, where they need you. You too, Mom. Rickon will be missing you.”

Before they left, Robb ruffled his hair just like he always did, and his mother stroked his face and stared at him as though she’d never see him again. They were slipping quietly through the door, when Bran called after her. “Mom? Can… can you just pass me my iPad before you go?”

Catelyn smiled sympathetically and walked back around the bed to retrieve it for him. “Stay strong, my sweet boy,” she said in a wavering voice, before the door closed behind her.

Bran felt their absence suddenly and completely. For a moment he considered calling them back, but he remembered the long journey they both had ahead of them and the responsibilities he would be distracting them from, and he bit his tongue. He was old enough now to look after himself. He had no business crying to his mother or brother just because he was a little lonely.

He lit up his iPad, scouring the list of notifications to find the ones from iiiRaven. When he found them, he tensed. _‘3 new messages from DreamInGreen’._ The boy from the playroom. Bran unlocked the device and waited impatiently for the app to load. The three new messages were written in emerald.

_DreamInGreen: Hi Brandon. It’s Jojen Reed._

_DreamInGreen: Would you like to talk about what happened the other day?_

Those had been sent four hours ago, one straight after the other. The last message was more recent.

_DreamInGreen: Maybe you wouldn’t. That’s okay. Let me know if you change your mind._

Bran’s eyes drifted over the contact list. The boy – Jojen – was offline. Judging by the tone of the last message, he must have thought Bran was ignoring him. He felt strangely guilty about the fact, though he didn’t owe the other boy anything. Slowly, he started to type.

_winterwolf789: Hi Jojen. Sorry, I’ve been in physio._

_winterwolf789: What do you mean about the other day?_

He lingered over Jojen’s name, waiting to see if he would reappear. A few tense moments passed and it remained greyed out. Bran quit the app with a hollow feeling in his chest. He opened Minecraft instead, but Big Walder wasn’t there. He ran his avatar around an empty landscape for a while, until his eyelids began to droop. He fell asleep with the screen still lighting up the room.

\--

All the world was square, and it took him a long moment to realise he was dreaming. The blocky clifftop on which he stood allowed a broad view of the horizon of angles and lines. There was a mirror image of a cliff opposite, but in between, a deep canyon divided them. As he walked to the edge, savouring each step, the steep drop below held no fear for him. After all, he could fly. But as he looked down into the dark abyss, the world suddenly became more real. The earth and rock beneath his feet held him steady as he leaned off the precipice. He spread out his arms, and let the wind stroke his face just the way his mother had. He smiled, eyes closed, and took another step.

“You knew what I was talking about.”

He jerked upright, feet lingering over the edge. Someone stood on the opposite cliff. Even from the other side of the canyon, Bran could see those moss green eyes.

“What?” he choked out, before the ground beneath his feet came loose, and all at once he was falling. His scream echoed through the canyon, his arms clawing the air uselessly. Up above, those old eyes watched him, unblinking. Jojen’s lips moved, forming words Bran couldn’t hope to hear. The wind was whistling in his ears. The ground was getting closer.

He awoke in a sweat, rasping for air. He clutched his twisted bedsheets in desperation, disorientated in the darkness. He tried to look at the time, but his iPad battery had died. The vision of Jojen made him want to check his messenger, but the charging cable was well out of reach. He stared at the ceiling until morning broke and the shaking left him, never quite sure if he was asleep or awake.


	3. Chapter 3

He kept on falling. All of his dreams left him hurtling towards the ground, over and over again, until he felt his bones might shatter. What was worse, he could always feel someone watching him. Far off in the distance, never close enough to speak, but he was always there, somehow more than just the apparition of a dream.

Bran had taken to waking screaming in the night, as he felt his body hit the ground time and again. It had gotten so bad that Osha had begun spending her night shifts stationed at his bedside.

“What’s making you scream so, little lord?” she asked one night, while he lay wide-eyed and shaking in the darkness.

He swallowed a lump in his dry throat before he answered. “I’ve told you, I’m not a lord. My father was one, but that doesn’t mean I am.”

“Even lords have bad dreams,” she insisted. “You were doing so well, Brandon. What’s troubling you now?”

Bran was glad for the darkness as he blinked back his tears. “I used to fly in my dreams. Now I just fall.”

He could feel Osha’s dark eyes weighing him. “Sometimes things that have caused us harm come back to haunt us in our dreams. Even the things we claim to have forgotten.”

He looked at her then, or what little of her he could see by the light of the corridor outside. “I can remember how I got this way.”

“You remember what other people have told you. You know the facts, but not the feeling. That’s what your dreams are trying to remind you of.” The pager on her belt beeped insistently. She got to her feet and turned it off. “Sometimes it’s not so bad to remember. I’ll be back shortly.” She disappeared, her shoes clacking against the floor as she went.

Alone in the dark, Bran tried closing his eyes. He would have liked to go to his window, to watch the many lights of Riverrun slowly blink out as the town gave over to sleep. But his blinds were closed and he couldn’t even crane his neck to see out of it besides.

Instead he tried to remember what Riverrun was like. It was his mother’s hometown, and he had visited her family here many times before. But as he tried to mentally map the streets, wandering around them in his mind, he kept finding dead ends every way he turned, so many gaps in his knowledge as there were. He had been at the children’s hospital longer than any stay he had ever had in the town itself, yet he was in danger of never knowing its streets and all their secrets. There were staircases and alleys that would forever go unexplored by him, and that was true of anywhere he went from now until the end of his days. He had a sudden ache for home, and he bit his lip rather than let the tears fall.

His iPad was lit up again. The light permeated his eyelids and he reached over to pick it up. When Osha was around, she never let it move too far away. It was Jojen. Days had passed since Bran had sent his questioning message to the mysterious boy, and with Jojen missing both online and in the playroom, Bran would have given up ever speaking to him. That was, if he didn’t keep appearing in his dreams every night, watching him fall but doing nothing to help. The green font of his message stared out into the darkness.

_DreamInGreen: Are you awake?_

Bran frowned at the clock in the corner of the screen. It was close to 3am.

_winterwolf789: Yeah. How did you know?_

_DreamInGreen: Your icon flashed. Can’t sleep?_

Bran frowned. He hadn’t touched the device or the app, so how could his presence have registered online? His fingers hovered over the keys. _‘You know I can’t’_ , he typed. Then he deleted it. It was ridiculous to think that the other boy was actually privy to his dreams, could actually see the dizzying drops he experienced night after night. Jojen’s presence was only a figment that his sleeping mind had conjured.

_winterwolf789: Not right now._

_DreamInGreen: Dreams can’t hurt you, but you should start paying attention to what they’re telling you._

_winterwolf789: Osha said the same thing._

_DreamInGreen: Osha?_

_DreamInGreen: Oh right, the nurse you like._

For a moment, Bran wondered where in the hospital Jojen could be that he didn’t know Osha straight away. She was one of the busier nurses, and she knew almost all of the children from the sheer amount of time she had spent on all of their various wards. He didn’t chase the subject, another question pushing instead to the forefront.

_winterwolf789: What makes you think you know so much about this stuff anyway?_

Jojen’s response took a moment, and Bran thought perhaps he’d offended him with the abrasiveness of his question. The tiny raven in the corner of the screen flapped its wings intermittently as the other boy typed.

_DreamInGreen: I have visions, same as you._

_winterwolf789: I'm having dreams, not visions._

_DreamInGreen: You and I both know they're more than that._

_DreamInGreen: What happened with Hodor the other day - was that a dream?_

Bran's shoulders stiffened. He eyed the door to his room, as though someone might come through it and see Jojen's words hovering in the air for all the world to read. He might not have understood what happened that day, but he knew it had to be kept a secret. But was it a secret if someone already knew?

_winterwolf789: I don't know what happened with Hodor. I can't explain it. One minute I was me, and the next, I wasn't._

He hesitated, before adding:

_winterwolf789: Do you know what happened to me?_

_DreamInGreen: Not yet. But I'm trying to figure it out._

_winterwolf789: With your 'visions'?_

_DreamInGreen: That attitude might slide with everyone else, but I'm trying to help you._

A wave of guilt washed over him, as Jojen's words stared back at him in the darkness. This was the first time anyone outside of Osha and Big Walder had tried to have a conversation with him, and here he was, making cutting remarks instead of building a friendship. He tried to change his mindset. Awkwardly, he adjusted his position on the pillows, and settled back down to reply.

_winterwolf789: You say that, but I don't know anything about you. Which ward are you even on?_

The little raven flapped his wings. And then stopped. Then it started again. An uncomfortable amount of time passed, and Bran began to wonder if Jojen had signed off. He restarted the app just to be sure. But when the chat window opened once more, the raven was still in flight. It continued on for a solid minute before delivering the one-word reply he had been hoping not to read.

_DreamInGreen: Psychiatric._

He drew a long breath, considering his reply. He was fond of those he knew from the psychiatric ward - Hodor, and little Della... but neither of them had tried to give him prophetic dream advice before. Jojen's next message came quicker than the last.

_DreamInGreen: I know how that sounds. But I need you to trust me. I'm not crazy._

Bran knew that word was banned anywhere near the psych ward: 'crazy'. It had negative connotations at the best of times, but to the kids stuck there, it was a judgement and a harsh one at that. _No one deserves to think that way about themselves_ , Bran thought.

_winterwolf789: I didn't say you were. But I don't know you, how I can just trust you straight away?_

_DreamInGreen: It's okay that you don't. But that's going to have to change if you have any hope of working out what your dreams are trying to tell you._

_winterwolf789: They're trying to tell me something?_

_DreamInGreen: All dreams do, but yours most of all._

_winterwolf789: What have my dreams got to do with what happened to Hodor?_

_DreamInGreen: They might have everything to do with it. They might have nothing at all. That's what I want to help you find out._

_winterwolf789: But WHY do you want to help me?_

_DreamInGreen: Because I like you._

The skin on Bran's arms prickled as he read. He glanced at the door to make sure no one was peeping in to see his reddened face, lit up like a billboard by the light of his screen. It was difficult to imagine a stormy teen like Jojen liking _anything_ , except for maybe his own company. What did someone like Bran have to offer someone like him?

_DreamInGreen: We have a lot in common. I was just like you when I was your age._

_winterwolf789: You talk like you're an old man or something. You're not that much older than me, are you?_

_DreamInGreen: I'm 17. That's why I'm running out of time._

_winterwolf789: What do you mean?_

_DreamInGreen: This is a children's hospital. The day I turn 18, they'll transfer me to an adult psychiatric unit._

That hadn't been the response he was expecting. When someone in the hospital said they didn't have much time, it usually meant they were facing an imminent death. By comparison, Jojen's fate seemed a positive one. A transfer to a dedicated facility would surely mean better care, more experienced doctors, and no more dying children.

_winterwolf789: When's your birthday?_

_DreamInGreen: Soon._

_winterwolf789: It doesn't sound like you want to go._

_DreamInGreen: I don't. Those places scare me. The nurses might treat me like a kid here but at least they see me as a person._

Bran paused. He wasn't sure how to comfort someone he barely knew, let alone do it via an online chat. He tried anyway.

_winterwolf789: I guess you'll have to get better before your birthday then. Then you can get yourself discharged._

_DreamInGreen: That's exactly what I mean to do._

Bran had been half-joking, but the sincerity of Jojen's reply made it clear that to him, this was no laughing matter.

The sound of heels came click-clacking down the hall. Bran hurriedly typed: _'I have to go'_. He got a quick glance at Jojen's reply before stashing the iPad hurriedly beneath his pillow.

_DreamInGreen: That's okay. I'll wait for you._

He was still trying to decide if he'd read it properly when Osha came creeping back in through the door. He didn't even have chance to close his eyes. He could see her disapproving look even in the darkness.

"You've been on that bloody iPad again," she said, settling back down into the chair beside his bed.

"No, I-"

"Brandon, I could see the light shining from the other end of the hall, so don't you lie to me. You won't sleep if you keep staring into lights like some hypnotized moth. Now shut your eyes. I need to rest too, you know."

She leant her head back against the chair, clamping her mouth shut to make it clear that there was no room for argument. He followed suit, and tried in earnest to keep his mind empty enough to rest.

Sleep found him eventually. He could tell he had drifted off, and that left him hopeful that there would be no more dreams. And yet he was standing - yes, definitely standing - in a blank, white landscape. He looked left and right. It was like staring close-up at a blank sheet of paper. But when he looked back again, Jojen was there.

"You took your time," was all he said.

"You're... you're really here, aren't you?"

"Only as much as you are," he shrugged. "I mean, you're not really standing, are you?"

Bran looked down to his legs. They were straighter and stronger than they'd ever been. But no, they weren't his anymore. He shook his head solemnly.

"Don't worry," Jojen smiled, a small curl of his lips that wasn't quite sure of itself. "You had to lose your legs so you could walk in your dreams. Every flight begins with a fall."

"How are you doing this?"

"I wish I could tell you." From the way he said it, Bran couldn't fathom whether he just didn't know, or if he was somehow sworn to secrecy. "I want to show you something. Come on."

He turned, and Bran took an unsteady step in his direction. As he did, the white of their empty world began to darken and shrink. Suddenly walls were closing in on them, and before Bran could marvel at it, he found himself standing in a dark corridor. It looked like the hospital, but something about it was far more sinister. In place of the children's drawings adorning the walls, there were stern charts, accompanied by sinister warning signs and panic buttons. The artificial lights above flickered at random, illuminating one dreary section at a time. Jojen walked with his head down, as though afraid to look. Bran followed, past door after door, until finally his curiosity got the better of him.

Stopping in his tracks, he put a hand to one of the metal doors. There were no windows, and not even a chink of light escaped from its tight edges. But there was a metal shutter, and Bran gripped the handle to pull it across.

"Are you sure you want to look?" Jojen asked, appearing like an apparition beside him.

He hesitated. "What's in there?"

"It's up to you if you want to find out."

He did, but as he started to pull the shutter back, Jojen looked away. It screeched as it moved, a chilling sound of metal on metal, and revealed a small hatch with nothing but darkness inside. Bran stared into the black, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom as the hallway lights flickered madly behind him.

His gaze settled on a shadowy mound in the corner of the room. He thought it might have been an animal, small and quivering as it was. Then he saw the whites of two bloodshot eyes, staring back at him with desperation. That was when he realised the mound was a person, trundled up in a tight white jacket and jammed into that corner like it was the only safe space in all of the universe. The sight alone was enough to put Bran on edge, until he saw the rough iron manacles hanging from the walls. The limp hair of the person inside somehow looked like Jojen's. The stranger screamed, and Bran slammed the hatch shut. Heart beating hard, he turned to find the Jojen he'd arrived with, wandering off somewhere down the corridor.

"This is what you're scared of?"

"Amongst other things."

"Are there really places like this?" Bran asked. It seemed more like a movie exaggeration than somewhere that could actually exist.

"Does it matter if there aren’t?"

He paused for a moment, in that dull, haunting corridor, and listened to the pained moans and sobs of the shadow-Jojen in the cell. All of a sudden and all at once, Bran felt the chill of Jojen's fear. What _did_ it matter if hospitals weren't really like this? It was the concept that frightened him. Bran was afraid of blood and he was filled with it. That didn't make his fear any less real.

He was just glancing back towards the door, when he felt a grab at his hand. He looked down in surprise to find Jojen’s long fingers were gripping his own. “We have to go.”

“What-”

“ _Now_ ,” Jojen urged, his gaze fixed somewhere over Bran’s shoulder, a bright, sharp fear reflected in his eyes.

Bran’s blood turned cold. There was something following them down the corridor. He could hear the sound of many rough feet, shuffling endlessly against the linoleum floor. The chill in the air made it feel as though winter itself was creeping its way towards them. Jojen tugged at him insistently, and the two of them broke into a run.

He was faster than Jojen, and once the panic spread to him, he pushed ahead. Despite the fear, running felt _good_. Then Jojen stumbled, and Bran looked back for him.

“Don’t look!” Jojen shouted breathlessly. “Just go!”

But it was too late. He’d only snatched a glance, but he had seen the crowd of hollow bodies, caught a flash of their taut, thin skin. A dark discolouration crept up their arms, up their legs. Their hair was white, like the fiercest of blizzards. But none of that compared to the hungry look in their bright blue eyes. He ran faster. He couldn’t count them, couldn’t even tell what they wanted, but he knew he wanted to be nowhere near them. Judging by the sweat on Jojen’s palms, he was just as desperate to escape.

They came to a halt suddenly. Bran almost shouted, wanting to tell Jojen to hurry, that they wouldn’t get away. But he had opened one of the many doors, and was pulling them inside to safety. The door closed behind them, and the room was small and dark. Bran couldn’t see Jojen, but he could hear his ragged breaths, feel the warmth of them on his face.

“What are they?” Bran asked, in a hushed whisper. Though he was sure if the creatures could hear anything at all, the pounding of his heart would surely give him away.

“Just another figment of my imagination, I suppose,” Jojen replied, somewhere in the darkness.

“You’re afraid of them as well?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

He _was_. If this was a nothing but a fearscape of Jojen’s worst nightmares, and what he said was true, that all dreams _meant_ something, it stood to reason that the strange, icy creatures represented something more complicated than they simply appeared. If Jojen knew their purpose, he would hardly admit to it. But as the shuffling of the horde scraped past the door and away down the corridor, Bran thought he might even be able to decipher their secret.

There was a quiver in the air, and Bran realised that Jojen was shaking. He would not, could not, reach out to comfort him, but in that moment he knew he had to help the other boy, this compelling stranger who could walk into his dreams and create entire worlds out of nothing. The very idea of him sounded so ridiculous, like some seer in the story of sorcerous old Bloodraven, and yet Bran had never felt in better company.

  
The dream faded the same way that sleep did, retreating slowly in the wake of morning. But the impressions that it had left on him were not so easily forgotten.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apologies for the obscenely late update - it turns out July was an even busier month than I anticipated, but hopefully we should be back on track for regular chapters once again! Thanks for sticking with me!

“Bran, over here!”

Bran was steering himself carefully into the playroom when he heard Big Walder’s enthusiastic shouting. He could see the familiar blocks of their Minecraft world racing by on his screen.

“I’ve started on the animal pit already. You better hurry up if you want in.”

Bran hesitated. “Actually, Walder, I don’t feel like it today.”

Big Walder’s mouth gaped open, and he stared pointedly at the iPad resting on Bran’s lap. Bran angled his chair away hastily. “Maybe later?” he said, as he pushed his wheels in the opposite direction.

He was already eagerly searching the room for someone else. In the corner where he’d seen him last, there he was, just as he said he would be. Jojen was immersed in his tablet, resting it on his drawn-up knees. Bran was struck by how frail he looked. In dreams he seemed so much more solid.

Jojen pulled out his earphones as Bran slid his chair into the empty space beside him.

“Look at this,” he said by way of greeting, offering Bran the screen.

Bran skimmed his eyes over the walls of text in the open browser. “Dream-walking?”

Jojen nodded, scrolling up and down the page seemingly at random. “It’s an old practice, dating back to the Children of the Forest. This article says they could deliberately achieve a dream-walking state.” He paused long enough for Bran to read a paragraph. Beside the text was a beautifully illustrated picture of the Children – or at least, an illustration of how someone thought they should look. Bran had seen similar pictures in his old storybooks back at home.

Not for the first time, Bran found himself reflecting on how much Jojen actually knew. As his eyes wandered over the words, his thoughts wandered over to the boy beside him. He seemed to be watching Bran for a reaction, perhaps even with a held breath. It seemed to Bran that the article might be nothing but a gateway to a conversation Jojen was too awkward to begin otherwise. He could empathise with that at least. “It says there are different levels of dreaming,” Bran said, once he had finished reading.

“Many of them. By falling asleep again in your first dream, you can progressively move through deeper levels, to infinity.”

“That’s never happened to me.”

“Nor me. But it’s probably a good thing,” Jojen shrugged, settling back into his chair properly. “Apparently if you go too far, you can get lost in the higher reaches of your own dreams.”

Despite Jojen’s warning tones, Bran found that the idea of being lost in a dream wasn’t entirely horrifying to him. At least if that happened he’d be stuck in a form that could _walk_. “So you think that’s something we could do?” Bran said, lowering his voice so as not to be heard. Big Walder was still watching their conversation intently, accompanied by a death glare.

“Probably not,” Jojen conceded. “But it’s interesting, don’t you think?” He barely paused for an answer, but the flash of something in his eyes meant that Bran didn’t really mind. In all the times Bran had seen him, dreamlike or otherwise, he had seemed somehow hollow. His green eyes were always nothing more than deep stagnant pools, but just then, there was a ripple of excitement under their surface. “What it _does_ say is that when you dream, your soul leaves your body. Given what happened with Hodor, I think that sounds like a clear explanation of your powers.”

Bran thought about that day, about how it felt to fly free around the room. If souls were real, tangible things, he could easily believe it had been his that went on such a journey. It had been an astounding thing – until he saw how scared Hodor had been. He could see the boy’s face now, eyes blank and lips quivering. Hodor hadn’t been back in the playroom since then, and Bran would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed him.

As transfixed as Bran was, he didn’t notice a nurse approach where they sat. She spoke suddenly, and he jumped in alarm. “Sorry to interrupt, boys.” From a tray in her hands, she offered Jojen a small paper cup with his name scrawled on. “Here you are.” She waited long enough to see him swallow the tiny tub of rattling pills before swanning away to hand out more.

Jojen fell silent. Bran wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or something else entirely, but he busied himself with his iPad, mindlessly opening and closing apps until Jojen was ready to speak again. He found himself scrolling through his pictures. Most of them were of his family, and he couldn’t help but grin back at their smiling faces. His father was in them too, looking as content as the rest of them. Those were the days before King’s Landing.

Appearing out of thin air as she usually did, Osha was suddenly at his side. “How are we today, little lord? Sleep better last night?”

He nodded, giving her a small smile. These days he was sleeping more soundly. In fact, he was usually entirely unconscious by the time Osha appeared for her night shift, burying down beneath his thin blankets long before lights out. Whenever Jojen was in his dreamscape, sleep became entirely more appealing.

Osha shot Jojen a look. It wasn’t a friendly one. “Open your mouth,” she commanded suddenly.

Jojen glared back, and for a moment Bran thought he might protest. But he did as he was asked. Osha grabbed his chin and leaned forward to inspect him more closely. “Lift your tongue.”

Once he had, Osha released him, seeming far from satisfied. She eyed him suspiciously as she walked away. When she was out of sight, Jojen flashed a grin and pointedly slid something into his pocket. It was his pills.

“Jojen-“ Bran started, nervously.

“I know what you’re going to say. And no, I _shouldn’t_ be taking them. If I have any chance of leaving here, it’s without these dragging me back down.”

“Don’t they make you better?”

“They’re making me worse,” Jojen said darkly, turning back to his tablet. Bran didn’t know enough to argue with him. He didn’t know what the medication was for, or what it did. But he knew that if he skipped his painkillers like that, the spasms in his back would have been unbearable.

“Is that your family?” In a deft change of subject, Jojen was suddenly pointing at the picture still lit up on Bran’s device.

He nodded. “Yeah, my mom, my dad. That’s my big brother Robb, and that’s Jon – though he’s only my half-brother really – my sister Sansa, Arya, and the little one’s Rickon.” He paused over his younger brother’s face. He hadn’t seen him for six months. After what had happened, he didn’t know if he’d even be able to face him ever again. Bran was in the picture too, smiling, _standing_ , a protective arm around Rickon’s shoulders. Some big brother he had turned out to be.

Jojen studied the picture for a long while, a hint of a smile on his face. “You have a big family.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a sister,” Jojen said, turning his tablet around to show Bran a picture of a young woman with dark curly hair. The Jojen in the picture with her was more robust – more like dream-Jojen – than the frail boy sitting there in the playroom. Both siblings were wearing huge grins. It didn’t look like the picture had been taken that long ago. “That’s Meera.”

“Do you get to see her a lot?”

Jojen shook his head, a cloud of sadness resting heavily around him. He lingered over the picture for a moment before closing it. “She comes when she can.”

From the way Jojen said it, it sounded as though those times were rare.

“Anyway, I want to try something,” Jojen announced suddenly. “Based on the article we just read. You should try and step into someone else.”

“What, here? Now?” Bran exclaimed, shooting an uneasy glance around the playroom. “I don’t think I can just do it whenever I want.”

“I think you could, if you tried. If your soul leaves your body when you dream, maybe you can do it while you’re awake too. Maybe that’s what you did with Hodor.”

“I don’t think you get it. I didn’t _choose_ to do that. It just… happened.”

“Well, make it ‘just happen’ again,” Jojen insisted, putting his tablet aside. “Try it on your friend there.”

Bran turned awkwardly in his chair to see that Jojen was pointing at Big Walder. He’d apparently relented in the staring contest he’d been privately having with them, and had sullenly returned to playing Minecraft. “Why him?”

“You need someone without a strong will, someone whose soul will move aside to make room for yours. His strength is being sapped away by the cancer. He’s dying.”

“You can’t say that, Jojen! The nurses told him he’s getting better.”

Jojen gave him a sceptical look, as though daring him to say that he really believed that. “Trust me, he’s dying. I’ve seen it.”

“How? What have you seen?”

“Listen, if you’re going to do this, it needs to be now. We don’t have much time, they’ll be kicking us out soon.”

“Fine,” Bran said. It seemed wrong, if what Jojen said was true and they were taking advantage of a dying boy. But it wasn’t as though this was going to work anyway, so what would it hurt to try? “What do I need to do?”

“First you need to relax, and focus. You need to be in a peaceful enough state to emulate sleep.”

“I wasn’t peaceful last time,” Bran frowned. “I was panicking.”

“Then it was most likely down to a strong surge of emotion. But right now you don’t have that external influence pushing you on. So you need to relax. Close your eyes.”

Bran sighed and leant his head back in his chair. He shut his eyes tightly, and tried to will away all conscious thought. He fidgeted uncomfortably. “It’s not working.”

“You need to focus on him,” he heard Jojen say. “Focus on what he’s doing, what he’s feeling.”

“How can I see what he’s doing if I’ve got my eyes closed?”

“Use your mind’s eye,” Jojen explained, as if it was just that simple. “It’s your third eye, Bran. You need to learn to open it.”

Bran didn’t have the faintest idea what that meant, but nevertheless, he tried again. He emptied his mind, folding himself in the darkness of non-thought. There was a crack in the black, where a tiny sliver of light shone through. Is that what Jojen meant? That was a question, and it blurred his focus. He dismissed it, concentrated instead on moving towards the tiny glimmer of light. In the dark space, he didn’t have a body, or hands to pry apart the fracture, but he imagined doing just that. It resisted, as though it was sentient. It pushed back at his metaphorical hands as though trying to ensnare them inside itself. He realised he was focusing too hard, forcing it. He stopped trying.

Then the crack flew open.

Light rushed in and a wind whistled by him, as though he was travelling at high speed. He heard the beat of wings. When the light subsided, he found he was staring into a familiar Minecraft landscape. For a moment he thought perhaps he’d fallen right inside the game. Then he lifted a pale white hand and touched it to his smooth head. The skin he wore was not his own, and yet he knew all the secrets contained within it. He could feel the growth pulsating inside his skull, sapping away the very essence of him and pushing him further into the Stranger’s bony grip.

The pressure made him panic. He found himself standing quickly, desperately afraid. The iPad fell from his lap as he thrashed. Somewhere nearby, someone else was screaming, but no one in the playroom had opened their mouths. Only Jojen was watching, a triumphant grin on his face. He tried to call out to him for help, but he couldn’t make Walder’s mouth work properly. Maybe this was what Jojen meant when he said you could get lost in dreams. Maybe he’d gone too far. Maybe he’d have to remain in Walder’s body as it slowly wilted away, bit by dying bit. Jojen was walking towards him, and he wanted to tell him no, to go back and shake his crumpled body over there in the wheelchair and wake him up from this terrible nightmare. Jojen’s hands rested instead on Walder’s shoulders, but he never would have known they weren’t his own.

“You need to calm down or you’ll lose yourself.”

Someone else was trying to fight Jojen off, but Bran held firm. Seeing those moss green eyes gave him his one and only anchor to his existence as he knew it. As _himself_ , not as cancer-ridden Walder. He was _Brandon Stark_. His name came back to him, and his possession weakened. Suddenly that other person inside him was sobbing, and the body was too. Jojen hooked two frail arms around it and pulled him close. Bran could feel the warmth of his body.

“It’s alright,” Jojen was saying. “You’re okay.”

And suddenly, he _was_ okay. He was Bran. Sick and disorientated and crippled, but himself again. From a distance, he could see Jojen with his arms still around the sobbing Walder.

At the sound of Walder’s tears, Osha ran to them, forcing them apart. “What did you say to him?”

Jojen was the picture of innocence when he stared back at Osha, wide-eyed. “He was upset. I was just trying to comfort him.”

Bran watched a wave of self-composure flood over Osha. He had never seen her so obviously biting her tongue at a patient before. She pulled Big Walder under her arm protectively, where he shivered and cried into her chest. “It was in my head!” he wailed.

“No dear heart, it’s in recession now, remember?”

_She thinks he means the tumour,_ Bran realised with a jolt of guilt.

Jojen reached out for Walder again, a genuine concern on his pallid face, but Osha pulled him swiftly out of reach. “Just… just go back to your business.”

Jojen retreated without another word, returning to Bran with a knowing smile on his face.

“Will he be okay?” Bran asked, the words thick in his mouth.

“He’ll be fine,” Jojen replied, his eyes alive with excitement. “But _you’ll_ be even better.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

The water was cool on his feet as he waded through it, one careful step at a time. It barely covered his ankles, but further out, he could tell it was a lot deeper. The rocky bottom of the stream was visible here, and he curled his toes around the smooth pebbles. Jojen sat on the bank, skimming the same stones across the water’s width. There was a pleasant silence, permeated only by the occasional splash of a rock, and the gentle rustle of the wind through the leaves of the tree above. The sunlight filtered through the red leaf canopy, casting dancing glimmers across the tree’s bone-white trunk.

“Is this somewhere you’ve been before?”

Jojen looked up sharply at Bran’s question, as though waking from a dream within a dream. “Hm? No, never.”

“Then how did you make it so perfect?”

Jojen frowned up at him, squinting against the light. “I had nothing to do with this. I thought it was _your_ dream we were visiting.”

Standing still in the gently rippling water, Bran ran his eyes from the very roots of the tree right up to where its frailer branches touched the sky. If he stared at it long enough, he could almost see a face in the bark, a wise expression on its lined face. “I’ve never seen this place before. But this tree kind of looks like the one from the playroom, don’t you think?”

“That paper monstrosity?” Jojen craned his head back to look at the tree in full. “I suppose it does, in its own charming way.”

The corner of the playroom where the two of them liked to meet was watched over loyally by the paper wishing tree and its hopeful red leaves. A thought crossed his mind, one he was too embarrassed to share with Jojen. Had they somehow created this world together? A world unseen by either of them, yet grounded in a simple image from the only real life space they ever occupied together. The world before him was a breath-taking scene, all rolling green hills and verdant forests – but this tree, with its unusual colouring, was the epicentre of it all. If they _had_ somehow combined their thoughts to make this place, their minds were already more synchronized than he had thought. He smiled down to the water.

“How’s your friend doing?” Jojen asked, skimming another stone.

“Big Walder? He’s okay… he hasn’t been in the playroom recently, but Osha just said he’s resting.” Feeling suddenly weary, Bran waded back to the shore. Legs still dripping wet, he sat down next to Jojen and outstretched them, letting the water evaporate away by the pleasant warmth of the sun. “Don’t you think it was bad? What we did to him?”

“Maybe,” Jojen said, moving over to make room for Bran. “But you need _someone_ to practice on.”

“I’d rather not have to practice at all, if it means hurting people.” He couldn’t forget the tears Walder had shed that day, or the way he had clutched his bald head like he was trying to push something out of it – like he was trying to push _Bran_ out of it. And then there had been Hodor, terrified into submission by the sensation of Bran’s presence. He gave Jojen a curious look. “Why haven’t I seen you do it?”

“Because I can’t,” Jojen shrugged. “I told you, I have visions. But your power is more than that. You’re special.”

He almost laughed at that. It could have been delivered like a joke, but the sincerity of Jojen’s tone gave him pause. He could almost believe him, as whole and as powerful as he felt right then. In this form, he had potential. He was not some broken little boy trapped in a wheelchair, incapable of so much as walking across a room. That was a version of him that he had left behind somewhere, in a stark white world a million leagues away. That version of him was not special at all. He sighed, picking at the grass beneath him. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“And maybe you’re not supposed to. Not yet.”

Bran felt a touch on his knee. It was soft and light, and for a moment he thought a leaf had fallen there. But as he reached out to brush it away, he realised that it was Jojen’s hand.

“But you will, in time,” Jojen concluded. Bran couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look anywhere but at that daring hand. Some part of his mind was shocked that he could even _feel_ the touch, but it wasn’t the same part of him that wanted to put his own hand over Jojen’s, just to see how warm it really was.

The water babbled, and the wind shook the trees. The soft silence reigned for but a moment, and Bran didn’t even dare to breathe, to break it.

Then, without warning, one side of the clearing began to erode away, and the moment was gone. The scene fell away swiftly like a waterfall before them, and suddenly Jojen’s hand was gone too.

“Is it that time already?” The older boy said, pushing back his sandy-blonde hair.

“Looks like it,” Bran said, sadly. Once that clifftop had materialised, it was hard to resist the pull. The tree now stood on the very precipice, towering majestically over the rocky canyon below. Every dream ended this way, with the same key players – the tree, the cliff, and the fall. Bran got to his feet without willing it. No matter how much he’d rather stay in the dreamscape with Jojen, in his old, whole body, the cliff always appeared and no amount of resistance could stop it from getting what it wanted. He hooked his bare toes around the edge of the rocky shelf and took a steadying breath.

Jojen appeared on the cliff opposite, a mirror image of the earliest dream they had shared. Bran stole one last glance at him before giving himself up to the fall.

“You know there’s always someone standing behind you, don’t you?”

Bran caught himself at the last second. “I… What?”

“Whenever you’re about to fall. They’re there now.”

The hair on Bran’s neck stood on end. He tried to look back without turning, terrified of what he might see. Suddenly he was aware of a dark presence behind him, a mass of misdirected anger and spite. No matter how he wished it, his body wasn’t brave enough to face the shadow head on. He was frozen in fear, and somehow that was worse than the falling.

Rather than look, his body flung itself off the cliff, with what felt like a sharp shove at his back. For half a heartbeat, he imagined the ground beneath his toes had been made of metal. He tried to twist in the air, silent tears of fright running down his cheeks. But when he looked up, the black mass had vanished. Only Jojen remained, safe on the other side, watching him fall with eyes of gentle sympathy.

He came to, and the room was empty. He had a searing pain in his back from the impact as he struck the ground. Except he hadn’t really fallen. His painkillers must have worn off, but Osha and his next dose were nowhere to be seen.

He was getting used to the falls now, or at least to recovering from them. The sweating and shaking subsided quickly, but he still felt a wave of nausea overcome him when he remembered that dark and distorted shape that had stood behind him.

He could see a small chink of light creeping from beneath his pillow, and he pulled out his iPad to see what it wanted.

It was Sansa. It had been a while since he had spoken to his sister, and seeing the elegant font of her message calmed him somewhat.

_xLadyStarkx: How’s my little brother doing this evening?_

_winterwolf789: He’s sleeping._

_xLadyStarkx: At 8pm?_

_winterwolf789: I was tired. How are you?_

_xLadyStarkx: Oh, I’m fine! Sorry I haven’t been to visit recently, the wedding planning is keeping me pretty busy._

_winterwolf789: It’s okay. Looks like I’ll be able to come to the wedding after all._

_xLadyStarkx: Mom told me! I’m so, so pleased, Bran._

_xLadyStarkx: We need to get you a suit :)_

Bran almost laughed at the idea of himself in such formal clothes. No doubt Sansa saw the joke in it too. Before his accident, Bran had been rough-and-tumble at the best of times. Always outside, hands always dirty with soil and splinters, knees always scuffed with grass stains and tree bark. Since he had been in hospital, he had never been so _clean_.

_winterwolf789: As long as I don’t have to wear a tie, I’m in._

_xLadyStarkx: Joff’s in charge of the ties, so I can’t promise anything!_

_xLadyStarkx: It’s going to be so magical, Bran. I can’t believe we’re all going to be back together again._

The thought of his family and of home was a distracting one, and for a moment, he was caught up in the excitement of it all. In a few weeks, he would be back with them. Even having to put up with stupid Joffrey would be worth it to see his family’s smiling faces all together again. The last time they had been together was his father’s funeral, and certainly no one had been smiling then.

His eyes fell guiltily on to the greyed-out name on his contact list. Jojen. Here he was wishing his time away while Jojen was stuck, lonely and afraid. Once Bran was discharged, he would probably never see the other boy again. He thought of their hushed playroom conversations, and their shared world with the beautiful tree. He thought of that gentle touch on his knee, and the understanding look in Jojen’s eyes whenever Bran explained the dreams that other people would surely scoff at. He typed out a message to his sister.

_winterwolf789: Can I bring someone to the wedding?_

The little raven icon flapped its wings, whisking away his message to the distant streets of Winterfell, where Sansa no doubt sat cosied up on her bed in their family home.

_xLadyStarkx: Oh? Could it be that my own little brother has a DATE?!_

_xLadyStarkx: Who is she, Brandon?_

Bran blushed.

_winterwolf789: It’s not like that._

_winterwolf789: I mean_

_winterwolf789: It’s a boy_

_winterwolf789: Jojen. His name is Jojen. We made friends in here._

_xLadyStarkx: Riiight. Whatever you say ;)_

_xLadyStarkx: But sure. We had some last minute cancellations thanks to Dad’s friends the Freys dropping out. So someone might as well eat the food._

_xLadyStarkx: Go ahead, bring your ‘friend’ ;)_

_winterwolf789: As funny as you are, I have to go._

_winterwolf789: Thanks though. I’ll see you soon._

_xLadyStarkx: Take care xxx_

Jojen was still offline, but at least he had some good news to share with him tomorrow. Thinking of Jojen meeting his family, Bran settled down and sank back into sleep.

\--

Walder looked small while he was sleeping, but Bran was still glad he had come. It had been Jojen’s idea, and he had pushed Bran’s wheelchair there himself. Bran was two parts embarrassed, but three parts pleased that Jojen had even contemplated doing this for him. He had been able to see how guilty Bran felt, though it had hardly taken any mysterious visions to discern. He flashed Jojen a grateful smile, although he didn’t see it.

“I wonder what he dreams about,” Bran said softly, running his eyes over Big Walder’s skeletal frame. A machine next to the bed was ticking out his heartbeat, and there was a tube coming from his nose. Since Bran had been in his head, his health had taken a considerable turn for the worst.

“You could always find out,” Jojen answered.

Bran shook his head firmly. “Not again. The dream-walking doesn’t harm anybody, but the _being_ someone else… I’m not okay with hurting people.”

Jojen crossed his thin arms and leaned back in his chair. “What if the person didn’t mind you stepping into their skin?”

“Then they’d have to know what I can do, and –“

“What if it was me?”

Bran stared at him as an uncomfortable silence settled. Jojen’s green eyes were invasive as always, as though he was seeing right through Bran’s body to the unsaid things he kept inside. Bran didn’t last a moment under that stare, and he tried to focus instead on Walder, knowing that this could very well be the last time he ever saw his friend. Walder’s eyes, though closed, were sunken in his skull, like two marbles dropped into deep drowning pools. Whether he would have ended up like this without Bran’s interference, Bran couldn’t say. Maybe this was simply his time. Maybe Walder was a pulled thread in the tapestry of the universe, waiting to be plucked away, and no involvement from Bran in any sense would affect him for good or ill. Maybe Bran did just have to sit there and watch him die.

The door behind them creaked, and Osha slid inside with an armful of fresh towels. She paused as she took stock of them, then frowned. “How did you get here?” she said, in Bran’s direction.

“Jojen brought me. I wanted to see Walder.”

Osha looked at Jojen as though he had just appeared out of thin air. She scowled, but carried on inside. She placed the towels gently on the countertop and busied herself checking Walder’s charts and machines.

Jojen broke the quiet. “Is he neutropenic yet?”

Osha slammed her clipboard down as though she meant to break it in half. “I don’t know where you’ve heard that word, but you can just leave his care to the doctors, alright? He doesn’t need you interfering.”

Jojen actually looked abashed, for the first time since Bran had known him. No doubt Osha thought he’d sought out the word in an elaborate plan to frustrate her, but she didn’t understand that Jojen just _knew_ things. Bran couldn’t help but feel it was unfair.

Osha worked quicker then, and gave Jojen a pointed look on her way to the door. “And for the last time, don’t you _dare_ dodge your medication this afternoon. We don’t need a repeat of yesterday.” Jojen gave her his usual hard stare, but said nothing. “I’ll be back in ten minutes to take you back to your room, little lord.” She hurried outside.

“Now I know why she calls you that,” Jojen said, almost to himself.

“What?”

“Little lord. It’s because of your father, isn’t it?”

Bran’s heart hardened. “He was a lord and on the council at King’s Landing. But he died. A heart attack, they said, brought on by stress.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jojen smiled grimly.

Bran considered him for a long moment. He was starting to recognise that gleam in Jojen’s eyes. “What do you _know?_ ”

“I know that your brother Robb is running for council in your father’s stead,” Jojen said, though he must have known that wasn’t what Bran was asking. “I know the elections are soon, and that he’s not going to win if his rivals get their way.”

“That’s true of anyone standing for election,” Bran shrugged. He wasn’t much interested in politics, though it seemed to run in his family. His father had tried to teach him about it, but he was sure less than half of it had sunk in. “That’s just how this stuff works. Everyone says bad things about everyone else and hopes they’ve said something awful enough that the other person will lose.”

Jojen didn’t take his eyes off Walder and his shallow breaths as he said, “I think the trouble facing your family is far more serious than a political rumour-mill. It’s dangerous, but fascinating. I’d love to know more about them.”

He almost didn’t ask. He allowed himself only a moment’s hesitation before he did, though the words came out all garbled and the wrong way around. “My sister, she’s – Sansa, I mean – she’s getting married. I have to go… no, I _want_ to go. I want to see everyone, but there’s Joffrey too. What I mean is…” He caged a frustrated sigh, imagining the shrewd smile on Sansa’s face if she could see him now. “You can come to the wedding. If you like. I mean, it might be a chance for you to get to know everyone, if you’re so interested. No, wait, it’s probably stupid, don’t-“

“I’d be glad to.” The smile on Jojen’s face was the broadest Bran had ever seen. Even then, his face was pale and tired-looking, but his eyes were alight with excitement. As quick as the grin had come, it was gone again, and he turned back to Walder with only the ghost of it on his lips. “Your sister doesn’t mind? Or… Joffrey, was it?”

Bran nodded, releasing the tense grip he didn’t realise he had on the arms of his wheelchair. “Joffrey Baratheon. His mother’s someone else standing for election.”

“Cersei Lannister. I’ve heard of her.”

“Everyone has,” Bran shrugged. Cersei was far more severe in person than she appeared on the television, if that was even possible. She frightened him, just a little. “So… you think you’ll be allowed?”

“I just need a day pass from the doctors, and my parent’s permission. All the more reason for me to prove that I’m sane and well,” Jojen said, and Bran could almost see the wheels of his mind turning as he thought. “Don’t worry. Even the North’s harshest winter couldn’t stop me from being there.”

Osha appeared to whisk him away before he could think of a way to reply, but he was almost glad of it. It was only as he was being pushed down the corridor of his own ward that he realised how hard his heart was beating.


	6. Chapter 6

The old Minecraft world was a familiar comfort, and he found himself visiting it a lot more in the days since Walder’s collapse. He had finished the work that his friend had started on their exceedingly grandiose animal pit. As he put the last pixelated torch into place, he pushed his avatar up into the air to see the structure from above. Flying over the landscape reminded him of his favourite dreams, and he travelled the map twice from end to end.

Noticing the time, he was about to log out of the game and hurry to sleep. Jojen would be waiting. Just as the thought crossed his mind, a message popped up from iiiRaven.

_xLadyStarkx would like to video chat. Accept?_

He frowned. Sansa had never started a video chat with him, not even since he had been hospitalized a hundred miles away. He tapped ‘yes’, his heart in his mouth as he waited for the connection to establish.

His own tense expression stared back at him from the tiny square in the corner of the screen as he waited for Sansa’s picture to appear. There was a lot of disturbance, and it settled slowly. Her square stayed dark and for a moment Bran thought that her camera was broken. Then something in the darkness shifted, and he realised she was in there, somewhere.

“Sansa?” he called out, tentatively. “Where are you?”

There was a sniff before she answered, and when she did, her voice was raw. “King’s Landing.”

“I thought you were at home.” Bran caught himself bringing the iPad closer to his face, as though it would help him to see her more clearly. “Are you okay?”

He saw her red hair shake, the vivid shade of it reflecting even the tiniest flash of light. “No… I mean, yes I am. It’s just… oh, Bran. I’m so sorry to bother you with this, but you’ve always given me such good advice. But you’re just a boy, it’s not fair of me. I-“

He took a sharp sting of offence. _Why does everyone always think I’m not old enough to help?_

Sansa always had a habit of girlish over-reactions, but her tone now was nothing short of frantic. It set Bran on edge. “Just tell me.”

“There are…” She paused to take a shuddering breath. “There are some things that make q-question whether it’s truly wise to marry Joffrey.”

“You want to call off the wedding?” he exclaimed.

“Shh!” Her pale hands flew towards the screen, and a few clicks told him that she’d lowered the volume. “I don’t know who’s listening.”

“Sorry,” Bran said, more quietly. “But why, Sansa? Marrying Joff was all you ever wanted to do. What’s changed your mind?” A thought occurred to him then, born out of the darkness in which his sister was hidden. “Is he… is he hurting you?”

“No!” she blurted out, a little too quickly. “No Joffrey would never. But he has ways of… oh, how can I explain it to you? I just need to know… if I’m having such doubts now, should I really marry him at all?”

In the end, she was right. He _didn’t_ know how to help. He fumbled with the words he wanted to say, could say, _shouldn’t_ say. Then a message appeared on his screen.

_DreamInGreen: No, she shouldn’t. Tell her that, Bran._

_winterwolf789: What are you talking about?_

“Bran? Can you still hear me?”

“Yeah, just one second.”

_DreamInGreen: Your sister. She shouldn’t marry Joffrey. I’ve seen what happens if she does._

_winterwolf789: How do I tell her that? She’ll never believe me._

_DreamInGreen: Find a way, Bran. This is important._

“Sorry, I’m here,” he said to his sister, closing Jojen’s message with exasperation. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you should do-“

A sharp gasp cut through Bran’s speakers. A heartbeat later and the door in Sansa’s room was opened. Light spilled inside and skewed the camera out of focus, obscuring the face of the huge man who stood in the doorway. He was built too broad to be Joffrey, his hair too dark and long.

“I have to go,” Sansa stammered, in a way that sounded like one complete word.

The last thing Bran saw by the light of the room was the bloody bruise around his sister’s eye. Then she ended the call, and the silence was deafening.

_DreamInGreen: What did she say?_

_winterwolf789: I couldn’t tell her. I tried._

_winterwolf789: Jojen, I think someone’s hurting her. Is it Joff? You have to tell me._

_DreamInGreen: He is, but not by his own hand._

_DreamInGreen: At least, I think that’s what I saw. There’s another man, one with a dog’s face. You need to warn her about him._

_winterwolf789: How can I tell her to be careful of a man with a dog’s face? She’ll never take me seriously._

_DreamInGreen: That’s up to you to figure out. There’s a lot riding on this, and your sister’s safety is the least of it._

\--

Bran couldn’t even rest easily enough to dream that night. He kept hearing Sansa’s cracking voice and seeing that bruised eye brimming over with tears. He was still lying in the same anxious state the next morning, when his mother and brother came to visit.

“We’ve got some good news,” Robb told him, with one of his easy grins. “The doctors said you should be able to come home in a couple of weeks. Before the wedding, even.”

A spark of alarm went through him. “That soon?”

His mother looked wounded. “We thought you’d be pleased.”

“No, I am, it’s just…” He hadn’t even mentioned Jojen to anyone but Sansa. How could he begin to explain to them the gap in his daily life that would appear from leaving Jojen behind? He struggled with the words, but in the end, they got lost somewhere inside him. “Mom, is Sansa okay?”

Her brow creased with worry. “Of course she is. She’s in King’s Landing, busy with the wedding preparations. I spoke to her just yesterday.” She hesitated. “Why, Brandon?”

“It’s nothing.” He shook his head. “I spoke to her too and she… she just didn’t seem herself. Maybe she’s just stressed. You know, with the wedding and everything.”

His mother pursed her lips and nodded in agreement. “King’s Landing is as busy as ever, and Sansa’s right in the heart of it. The elections are in a month.”

He hadn’t realised they were so soon. Time rolled by quicker these days, since he had met Jojen. Talk of elections set him to thinking about something Jojen had said to him, dreams ago. He felt the presence of the dark figure that preceded his falls and suppressed a cold shudder. “Robb, who are your biggest rivals in the election?”

His brother seemed a little taken aback by the question. It was unusual for Bran to take any kind of interest in the political side of the family, and he even felt odd asking such a thing. Robb took a careful moment to formulate a response, the way Bran always saw him do just before he made a public address.

“Most likely the Boltons. They want the Northern seat, but their influence isn’t large enough. The seat’s been held by a Stark for decades, and you know as well as I do that Northerners are fiercely loyal. The Boltons have Lannister support, but not the support of the people. Which, in the end, is what an election comes down to.”

“And to win the seat means…”

“That we get to sit on the King’s small council,” Robb nodded. “There is one seat for every major region in Westeros, and to occupy one is to have an input on every major decision that passes through King’s Landing. If the seat for the North was taken up by a Bolton, I can only imagine how that would affect the policies that would come into effect in Winterfell, and beyond.”

“So no one in the North wants the Boltons to win either?” Bran said, with a frown of concentration. “They want _you_ to win?”

“They _did_.” Their mother interrupted. “But he lost more than a few voters when he married Jeyne.” Robb grimaced, but their mother did not relent. “And he didn’t only lose votes from the common people – he also lost support from other political parties. We lost our alliance with the Freys because of the marriage, and now they’re threatening to side with the Boltons. It’s a very… delicate situation.”

No matter how old and professional Robb had gotten, he had never lost the ability to look like a scolded child. Bran studied him carefully. “So even the Lannisters want the Boltons to win?”

“I wouldn’t put it so plainly, but… yes, that’s right,” Robb said, gravely, looking for all the world like their father as he ran a hand through his dark beard.

“And the Lannisters are the ones in power?” For a startling moment, Bran thought he understood how dire the situation truly was. “But that means they’re making all the decisions, and if they want you out of the council…”

“Then that’s just what they’ll do.” His mother nodded. “That’s why we’re counting on Sansa. With her marriage to Joffrey, we should be able to secure some degree of alliance with Cersei Lannister.”

“So you _do_ want Sansa to marry Joffrey,” Bran exclaimed. He bit his tongue when he saw his mother’s expression. It could have withered a tree.

“Of course we do,” Robb explained, leaning his elbows on his long legs. “It’s just that Joff can be… _difficult_ , and his mother even more so. We have to be careful. One false move this late in the game and this alliance will fall, and the Stark name will fall with it. If we want to remain on the council and keep our people free of the Bolton influence, we have to win this election. It’s all resting on my shoulders.”

It was almost as though Bran could see that weight, settling heavy across his brother’s back. He stooped a little these days, head bowed and eyes ringed with dark circles. With each passing day, he seemed to be cracking, the weight of the responsibility he carried becoming just that little harder to bear. And who could be surprised? They had just lost their father, and Robb was expected to fill his rather daunting shoes without even the chance to shed one single tear of grief. Add to that the stresses of Bran’s accident and the effects it had had on Rickon, and the fact that his entire political career hinged on the whims of his often flighty younger sister, and it was not hard to see where those cracks in his composure began. Bran was sure that were it not for his marriage to Jeyne, Robb would have been lost long ago. It was as though a dark cloud was hanging over their family, one that wasn’t even of their own making. Had the Gods simply decided that their time was up?

The implications of that were too hard to bear, and into the tense silence, Bran sighed. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“You can focus on getting better,” his mother said, resting a hand on his. “Having you home would be help enough.”

“Soon.” He smiled to her sadly, the ghost of Jojen’s fear rippling through his conscience. “And then we’ll fight this thing together, I promise.”

And for a moment, he almost believed that they could.


	7. Chapter 7

In the playroom the next day, Jojen seemed even frailer than usual. He was coughing heavily into his hands when Bran drew up beside him.

“Are you okay?” Bran asked with concern.

Jojen was nodding as he tried to get his breath back. When he finally regained himself and looked up, Bran could see how sunken his cheeks had become. “Nothing to worry about,” he said, in a hoarse voice. He repositioned himself on his chair, setting his tablet aside. “I’ve had an idea.”

“What is it?” Bran said uncertainly. He remembered well how Jojen’s last idea had ended, and so too did Big Walder.

“I think we could share a dream. Here, now. While we’re awake.”

“I don’t know, Jojen. You don’t look-“

“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” Jojen said dismissively, but Bran could see how his hands were shaking. “Besides, a dream’s not anything to worry about. We do it while we sleep, it can’t be that strenuous.”

Bran relented. Jojen’s logic always seemed to make sense, even when it didn’t. So together they practised the meditative state that Bran had achieved before. He found it hard to get back there this time, too aware of his surroundings and unable to resist the temptation to peek under his eyelids to see how Jojen looked when he slept. One minute the older boy was talking, guiding Bran through the motions, then the next, he was gone. He slipped into his dreams quicker than Bran ever had, and it made him eager to catch up.

The dreamscape was thick and white with snow. From hilltop to treetop, the land was buried. It took Bran a long moment to realise that he knew this place – the wolfswood at Winterfell. _Home_. He had never seen snow, having lived all his life in the long summer. He had no idea of how drastically it would change the landscape. But if he had never seen snow, how had he dreamt it so clearly? Was this all down to…

“Jojen?” Bran called out in confusion. He looked left and right across the ghostly landscape, but the older boy was nowhere to be found. He took a step forward, and watched his foot disappear into the drifts. He panicked when no one replied. Jojen always came to _him_ , never the other way around. How could he hope to find him?

Black wings swooped low overhead, accompanied by a dissonant _caw_. The sound was muffled by the snow, but the bird was close enough that its cry reverberated in Bran’s ears. He wandered blind between the trees, occasionally stumbling over a frozen root as he navigated the once familiar land.

He called out for Jojen again, but like the raven, his voice did not travel far. He worried over the thought of Jojen being too weak to get there, that perhaps he was drowning under the weight of a dream that he had no hope of controlling.

That was when the tree loomed up ahead, all white limbs and blood red leaves. Bran smiled. It was _their_ tree, sprung up in the middle of the wolfswood as though it had always been there. The sun was setting in soft winter purples in the distance, throwing a long grey silhouette of the tree down across the snowy ground and straight to the tip of Bran’s toes. He set off towards it, struggling to keep up his eager pace against the freshly fallen powder.

As he drew nearer, circumventing the frozen stream, Jojen appeared from behind the trunk. Bran’s relief was immediate. The colour had returned to Jojen’s face, along with a new, soft pink glow brought about by the cold. His body was fuller, stronger. He didn’t so much as cough. He was smiling at Bran, one hand hooked around a branch of the tree. “Shall we climb?”

No words could have sounded any sweeter. Climbing was his lifeblood, and for a moment he couldn’t remember if he had ever told Jojen so. If there was one thing that made his heart ache, it was that in the real world he would never be able to climb again. But here, now, he _could_. And what was more, he could do it with Jojen at his side.

He grasped one of the lower branches, and hoisted himself up on to it. Jojen was still on the ground, negotiating his first move, so Bran reached down and helped him up. The ice made the branches slick, and even Bran struggled to stand. Jojen could only sit at first, looking over his hands and feet as though he didn’t know what he was expected to do with them. Bran took the initiative, swinging with ease over and up to the next branch. Jojen watched intently, snowflakes collecting in his dark eyelashes, then followed, albeit a little more awkwardly. It was nice to take the lead for a change, Bran thought. Instead of being the crippled boy who relied on everyone else to move and dress him, so clueless about the ways of dreams and visions – for once _he_ was showing _Jojen_ how things were done. No one could best him at climbing, not even Robb. He went higher, breathless laughter escaping him in ice clouds before his face. Jojen stumbled more frequently as they neared the top and the branches began to dwindle into nothing more than twigs. Bran’s fingers were blue with cold by the time his head broke through the thick blanket of red leaves overhead.

If he’d had any breath left from his frantic climb, then the view surely would have stolen it. The land below him stretched out for miles, leagues of unbroken white. The powdered snow glittered with a tint of violet in the lazy sunset. Skeletons of trees stood like sentinels against the horizon line, each of their limbs heavy with the weight of snow. The sky was almost the same colour as the ground, the clouds choked with winter and thick as they were. Above and below bled into each other endlessly. He turned his head and the dark silhouette of Winterfell rose up before him. He bit back a sob.

His sorrow was only broken when Jojen appeared beside him, preceded by a rustle of a few ancient leaves. His face was flushed and he was all but breathless. But when he looked out from the treetop to see what Bran was seeing, his tired eyes filled with wonder. “This is your home,” he said.

“That is,” Bran pointed with a shivering hand towards the shape of the town. Squinting against the light, he thought he could almost see his house. “This is just the wolfswood. I used to come here a lot with…” He stopped short, awash in memory.

“With your father?”

Bran nodded, resting back against the trunk of the tree. Jojen’s knuckles were white from holding on so tightly. His fingertips were blue. They settled into a companionable silence, both of them staring out at the view and seeing quite different things. They had created this world together, Bran’s home and Jojen’s snow, and Bran felt content enough to let his mind wander freely in this safe, shared land.

“I once heard a story that said the sky is blue because we live in the eye of a blue-eyed giant,” Bran said softly. “But if that was true, why does the sky look like that now?”

“Maybe he has his eyes closed,” Jojen answered, his lips barely moving. “We both know how easy it is to live your life half-blind.”

“I never got to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For all this. For getting me to open _my_ eyes. When this started happening to me, I felt so lost. I was confused and I pretty much thought I was going crazy. If you hadn’t reached out to me, I’d probably still be taking over minds at random, convinced I was losing my own. I’d… I’d be alone in this.”

“We’ve hardly touched the surface of what you need to know.” Bran could feel Jojen’s cool green stare fall upon him. “But the last thing you are is alone, Bran.”

“No one would have understood this, not even my own family. No, my… my dad would have understood. I know he would. He was religious, he followed the old ways, and surely the Old Gods must have had some teachings about dreams and visions.”

“Eddard Stark was a wise man. He would have been proud of you. He _is_ proud of you.”

Bran didn’t bother to ask how Jojen could possibly know such a thing. Jojen just did, and that was the way it just seemed to be. Bran could live happily in that knowledge. Some of the trees in the distance moved in an invisible breeze and caught his attention for a long minute.

“I’ll be leaving the hospital soon,” Bran said, in a voice drowned by sadness.

“Soon,” Jojen agreed.

“Who will teach me then? How will I ever find out what’s happening to me? When…” Bran drew a sharp breath of cold air. It felt like a knife in his chest. “When will I see you again?”

A chill touched his head, just a shade colder than the snow that fell around them. It was Jojen’s lips, resting gently against his forehead. The soft kiss lasted for only half a heartbeat, but Bran felt an eternity stretch inside that moment – a lifetime of first snows, and first loves, and last, dying stars. Jojen pulled away, and Bran half thought about asking him to come back. The words were robbed from him when he saw the fear that had ignited in Jojen’s eyes.

He was staring out into the distance as though in a trance, his head softly shaking in disbelief. Bran thought he saw him mouth the word ‘no’, a silent plea of helplessness that escaped him as no more than a frosty breath.

Bran followed his gaze reluctantly, over to the snow-covered horizon. For a moment, he saw nothing. Just white and white and white, as far as the eye could see. Then, in the stillness, something began to stir.

What Bran had took to be mounds of snow, piles gathered high in the drifts – they were moving, and _fast._ They were headed towards them, towards the tree, and Bran felt nothing but confusion until the flash of a hundred bright blue eyes awoke the fear inside him.

“Those things…” Bran breathed. “From our first dream! They’re chasing you, aren’t they?”

“Hunting me,” Jojen corrected, eyes not leaving the horizon line. “Stay here, Bran. They’re not meant for you.” Clumsily, he started to descend.

“Wait! You can’t go down there, they’ll catch you, I-”

Jojen didn’t stop climbing. “They’re not real. Constructs. This might be our dream but they’re _my_ fear and as long as you stay out of their way they won’t hurt you.”

Bran stood fixed, rooted just like the tree to which he clung, glancing desperately between the monsters and Jojen’s desperate descent. He was climbing too quickly, too awkwardly. His hand slipped on a sheet of black ice and Bran saw him fall even before he went.

“Jojen!” He called after him, cold air rasping at his throat.

Jojen hit a branch, then caught another. He hung there, just for a moment. Bran took his chance. He glanced once more at the creatures, now swarming beneath them, and swung artfully down. He climbed towards Jojen, who had one hand hooked around branch as his feet scrambled for purchase. The side of his face was bloodied and scuffed with tree bark.

“Grab my hand!” Bran shouted down, extending an arm from too far away. He could see the eyes of the creatures flashing through the lower branches. Jojen lifted his free hand meekly, for a moment seeming just as weak in dreams as he did in life. Bran climbed lower, as sure-footed as he’d ever been. He grabbed at a knot in the tree trunk, and tried again. “You can do it, just take my hand.”

Jojen didn’t answer. He didn’t even try. With one slow look from the creatures below, up into Bran’s pleading eyes, Jojen shook his head. It was a surrender. Bran watched in horror as Jojen’s fingers released, and he hurtled down into the grasping hands of the icy monsters that awaited him.

Bran screamed, screamed until his throat was raw and he was no longer making a sound at all. In the silence of his terror, he could hear with horrifying clarity the way the knives split Jojen’s skin.

He closed his eyes, praying to wake. It felt like an eternity until the _snicks_ and _crunches_ faded, replaced instead by the clamour of voices in the playroom.

He looked immediately to the empty chair beside him, then to the nurses and doctors crowed around something on the floor.

“Get away from him!” Bran called, his voice still hoarse from the screaming. “Leave him, he needs me!”

One of the nurses broke away from the group, and Bran finally saw Jojen, unconscious, and seizing in the lap of some doctor from psych. His face was pale, his eyes were sunken and flicking madly behind their lids. The same lips that had touched Bran’s head just moments ago were quivering as his teeth chattered behind them. Bran could have sworn there was a graze of tree bark on the side of his face.

Instinctively, Bran tried to rush to his side. But this wasn’t a dream – no, this was a much crueller reality. The sudden movement sent a spasm of pain up through his back, and he let out a cry of agony that brought more nurses running to the scene. Someone was stroking his hair, but unless it was Jojen, Bran didn’t care. He watched helplessly as they bundled Jojen on to a stretcher, murmuring about skipped medication and relapse in symptoms.

“He’s just dreaming!” He found the words to say. “You need to wake him up! He’s only asleep, please, you’ve got to try-”

They were carrying Jojen away. Bran was crying, as pathetic and helpless as he’d ever felt before. Not for the first time, he wondered what Jojen had ever seen in a broken boy like him.

“Jojen,” he said weakly. For a moment he didn’t even care who was staring.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey everyone! Just a quick note to thank you all for your wonderful support with this story so far. I'm honestly over-whelmed by the lovely messages and feedback I've had up until now. You're all such a pleasure to write for! We're about to hit the home-stretch with this story, so prepare for some chaos in the chapters to come. Hope you enjoy :)

The world kept on turning. Inside and outside the hospital, it was as though nothing bad had ever happened. People just went on with their lives, blissfully unaware, and Bran envied them more than ever.

He lay in his bed for what felt like years, the long hours between his physiotherapy stretching like an eternity. The sessions were getting shorter, less intense, and he knew what that could only mean.

When he did find the courage to venture into the playroom, he felt lonelier than he ever had. If the other children had ignored him accidentally before, they did so with intention now. No one would speak to him after his outburst at Jojen’s collapse. They just gave him suspicious looks from the corners of their eyes, as though he had somehow been the cause of it all. How could he begin to tell them about the white frost creatures with glowing blue eyes, solid manifestations of Jojen’s fear?

In the end, he refused to go there, and instead asked Osha to keep the door to his room tightly closed so he didn’t have to see the world and its sickening normality. For hours he lay on his back, trying to achieve a dreamstate strong enough for him to get up and walk right out into the corridors himself. The traces on the ceiling became more familiar to him than the back of his own hand.

Trying and failing to sleep for the hundredth time, he pulled his iPad up from beside him. iiiRaven was already on screen. His eyes did the familiar journey over Jojen’s greyed-out name, then to the list of unread messages in the chat window. Each one varied in length and sentiment, but the one he typed now was the most frequent of them all:

_winterwolf789: Are you awake?_

The little flying raven whisked the message away to join the scores of others that would never reach the eyes of their recipient. Bran half imagined the useless little creature spilling the contents of the message somewhere on its way to find Jojen. Desperate to blame something, he imagined baking the useless bird into a pie.

Osha arrived, right on schedule, and gave him a disapproving look. “Brandon, I can’t keep taking away these meals untouched.”

Bran had forgotten about the tray, pushed far out of reach at the foot of his bed. “I’m not hungry.”

“You might say that, little lord, but it’s been days. You have a big day tomorrow and I don’t want to have to-”

“Tell me what happened to Jojen.”

Osha sighed, no doubt tired of the question. “You know I can’t talk about such things with you.”

He followed her around the room with his stare. “Just one word. Just tell me he’s okay. No one even has to know you said anything.”

“Listen to me, the less you worry about that one, the better,” she said, scooping the untouched plate into her arms.

Bran felt an anger rise up in him. “Why do you hate him so much?” he snapped.

Osha floundered for a moment, obviously taken aback by his tone. “It’s not that I _hate_ him.”

“You’re only saying that because you have to. If he wasn’t a patient you’d chase him away with a stick. I know he frightens you because he knows things, but it’s not an excuse for you to treat him like he’s not even human.”

Finally she bit back. “Well it’s not natural, is it?!”

The question hung there between them, until Osha seemed to remember herself and went to shut the door, glancing nervously out into the corridor to see who might have heard.

“Listen,” she said, more calmly now. “I only meant it’s hard enough for you to focus on your own recovery without someone like him confusing your mind. There are things in that head of yours that need remembering, for your family’s sake, and listening to his nonsense is only going to stop you from doing just that.”

Bran couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it all. “You don’t even realise that both you and him are saying exactly the same thing.”

“The difference is I say these things because I care about you.”

“So does he.”

All of a sudden, Osha had a sheen in her eyes that looked like realisation. “Hm. Right. So it’s young love, is it?”

“Maybe it is,” Bran said, forgetting for once to be embarrassed.

“No wonder you can’t see sense,” Osha said, with a shake of her head. “Go to sleep now, little lord. I’ll be back to check on you.” She left, turning off the light as she went.

Osha didn’t come back, for whatever reason, but Bran wasn’t waiting for her. Sleep didn’t grace him, and the harder he wished for it, the more elusive it was. He didn’t know if visiting the dreamscape would lead to any traces of Jojen, but the fear of the blue-eyed creatures kept his eyelids from closing. He could still see the stiff chunks of their hair, hear the shuffle of their frozen feet, the stillness of the air from the breaths they didn’t breathe. The cold crept into his veins as it must have crept into theirs, and subconsciously, he pulled his covers up around his face, like he used to do when he was younger and afraid of grumkins and snarks sneaking into his room.

The door creaked. Slow footsteps scraped across the floor. Bran’s throat tightened. He fought the urge to cry out, though he wasn’t sure that he could even if he’d wanted to. It took him a long, horrible minute to be brave enough to pull the sheets down below his eyes. The room was pitch black but there was movement by the door. Something huge was making its way inside. Bran heard jagged breaths that weren’t his own, until, finally:

“Hodor.”

“Hodor?” Bran let a giddy laugh of relief escape him. “Is that really you?”

The gentle giant stepped closer, into the dim light, and Bran saw the grin spread across his face. As Bran’s racing heart began to slow, he realised he was smiling too.

“How did you even get here?” Bran whispered in disbelief.

“Hodor!” Hodor said, in a booming voice that echoed back out into the hall. Bran quickly shushed him. He hadn’t seen Hodor since the first display of his powers  in the playroom, and after what had happened to Walder, it had been hard not to worry.

The ward was still, the corridor silent as the other patients slept. Bran could only guess where the nurses could be that they had missed Hodor wandering in like he had. But he wouldn’t stay undiscovered for long. That was when Bran realised he had a chance, and he had to act quickly if he wanted to take it.

He shuffled up on to his elbows. “Come here, Hodor.”

The boy looked a deeper shade of confused, but of course he obeyed. He drew closer to the bed and Bran steeled himself.

“I need your help with something. It isn’t going to be nice for you, but I promise, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t absolutely have to. This is the only way. Just… just give me your hand, okay?”

Holding Hodor’s giant fingers in his own, Bran closed his eyes. The last thing he saw was the shadow of fear that passed across Hodor’s vapid face. He pushed through the darkness, searching for the crack of light to the exclusion of all else. He lost sense of himself and the world around him. He _was_ the darkness, as it was him, until he passed through that shudder of light within his reach. When he opened his eyes again, he saw his own body, prone and empty on the bed. He stood above it, enormous and tall, wearing Hodor’s skin. He examined his hands, unable to believe how much more _comfortable_ this felt compared to the last time. It was as though he had left a trace of himself there, like leaving a door unlocked in a place you’d been before. He had let himself in and Hodor had almost allowed it. There was thrashing, no fighting, no struggle for control. Hodor had made way for him and Bran tried to send a wave of gratitude to wherever the giant hid, deep inside his own mind. Then, with strong arms, he lifted his broken body off the bed and hoisted it on to Hodor’s back, carrying it just the way Robb and Jon had used to when he was small. It took him a few careful moments of struggling to find a position where his body wouldn’t fall, his eyes watching the door anxiously as he worked.

The ward was quiet as he stepped out into the corridor. At first he found it hard to step quietly, Hodor’s large feet slapping the linoleum with the force Bran put behind them. By the time they reached the nurse’s station however, he had mastered it. And lucky that was too, as one of the nurses slipped by the mouth of the corridor just paces away. Bran halted, but she disappeared into the break room without so much as a glance his way.

Creeping closer to the desk, Bran peered left and right, looking for signs of anyone else on duty. There was no one. He took his chance, picked up his pace, and slipped out of the double doors as gracefully as he could in a body four times the size he was used to.

His first small victory. The excitement was exhilarating, and to his surprise, Hodor’s heart thumped in his chest in response. Was he doing that? Did he control Hodor’s heart the same way he controlled his mind, his feet, his hands? It seemed like tricky territory and he decided it was a subject best left alone.

The chances of being spotted had increased now they were in the main area of the hospital. One glance his way and Hodor would be carted back to psych, Bran’s own body most likely rushed to ER when they saw he was unconscious. Then his plan would be over. This was his last chance and he wasn’t going to waste it.

Bran quickly realised that the hospital was like a labyrinth. Being pushed around it in a wheelchair wasn’t the same as walking through a place with your own two feet, committing each step and turn to latent memory.

He turned right. The corridors were more brightly lit here now there were no sleeping patients around, but there was still silence. The first few corridors were as quiet as a church and he moved along them with ease, stopping only to adjust Hodor’s grip on his own body.

Then he heard voices floating his way. He halted sharply, glanced around. Footsteps were coming towards him. There was nothing either side of him, no refuge. He stood stock still in the illuminated hallway, like a rabbit in headlights, until he remembered the elevators he had just passed. His one hope of escape.

He turned back, and sprinted noisily. Running was _hard_ , but he couldn’t worry about that now. He drew closer to the elevators and realised with a start that one of them was out of order. A lump hit his throat until he saw that the other one was illuminated, _working._ He slammed the button heavy-handedly. The little light above told him the elevator was four floors up. He could hear snatches of conversation now, and he decided that the people coming his way were doctors. The elevator reached the third floor and Bran was sure it must have been crawling. _Come on,_ he willed it. _Faster!_

His impatience made Hodor’s body jolt, like a car he’d tried to start too quickly. His unconscious body slipped from Hodor’s back and he only just caught it. Second floor. His panic was making Hodor’s body harder to control and the edges of Bran’s mind felt fuzzy. With eyes half blurred, he watched the display change to a triumphant ‘1’. Two figures rounded the corner and glanced up from their conversation.

The doors slid open and Bran flung Hodor’s body inside without even stopping to see if anyone was there. He hammered at buttons indiscriminately until the doors slid shut. Shaking Hodor’s head to regain his focus, he scanned the floor listing feverishly. He found his destination and struck the button marked ‘5’. The nerves subsided only when the lift began to move. He watched the numbers go by anxiously, praying to any god he could think of that it wouldn’t stop on the way.

Somewhere underneath his panic, he had a dull realisation that this was the longest he had kept control of another body. He didn’t yet know if there was a limit to his abilities, but he hoped this wasn’t the time he was going to find it. He was becoming painfully aware of how heavy his own body was. Even Hodor’s strong arms were starting to ache, and standing still only made it worse. He paced desperately until the doors reopened and he found himself out on the fifth floor.

He soon discovered how Hodor had escaped his own ward so easily. There seemed to be some kind of commotion going on in psych. The flashing light of an alarm was still blinking on the desk of the nurse’s station. Bran walked past it hesitantly, peering cautiously around corners until he was sure no one was there.

There was a commotion going on further down the corridor and it seemed like several nurses were battling with something near the doorway to a patient’s room. Hodor’s body seemed to instinctively flinch at the chaos and Bran half wondered if he had run away from the ward in fear.

Bran headed away from the tussle, down the opposite corridor, with nothing left to do but pray it was the right direction. The doors he passed were numerous and he had to squint to read the names listed beside each room. They were shared wards, and Bran found Hodor’s name listed along with three other boys. Four girls were in the next room. The last door stood ajar, and it was next to it that Bran found the name he was searching for: _Jojen Reed. Bed 3._

Bran entered cautiously, conscious of the sleeping people around him. The last thing he needed was for one of them to wake and reveal him when he was so close now. He shut the door quietly behind him, letting the darkness wash over him. The furthest wall held a wide window with its curtains drawn back. By the silvery starlight he saw Jojen’s pale face, his still features picked out delicately in the shadows. He urged Hodor on, and placed his own body as gently as he could into the chair at Jojen’s bedside. He sent Hodor some calming thoughts, begged him to stay quiet, and slipped away.

His own body ached from the way it had been carried, but he had never been happier to be back inside it. He offered Hodor a reassuring smile and the giant crouched to look at Jojen too, with an expression that looked something close to reverence.

Jojen was peaceful, though his eyelids were dark and heavy. His lips were softly parted and Bran could see small breaths escaping them. He reached out a hand to hold Jojen’s and found his skin was icy cold.

“Jojen,” he said, softly. Then, all at once: “It’s me. I had to come and see you. No one would tell me anything. I’ve been worried sick, and you haven’t answered my messages, and… Jojen?”

Bran pressed his fingers to Jojen’s wrist, and the dull pump of his heartbeat was barely there. He wasn’t just asleep. He asked Hodor to pass him Jojen’s chart and looked at it as though he could understand what it said. It wasn’t written anywhere, but Bran knew Jojen hadn’t been awake since the day he fell from the dreamscape tree. Bran kept his fingers held tight, letting the soft rhythm of Jojen’s heart flow through him, like the flutter of a small bird’s wings.

“Jojen, I’m… I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m being discharged. I don’t know when I’m going to see you again and that scares me. You’re supposed to be at Sansa’s wedding with me. Or you’re supposed to help me stop it – I don’t know which I’d rather have happen. But if you could be awake, just for a minute, right now, that would make me so happy.” He watched Jojen’s face closely, looking for any sign or signal that he had heard. For a long while Bran expected him to answer back, to say something witty or mysterious, or perhaps a combination of the two. But there was only silence, broken by the distant clamour of the struggle down the hall.

Bran sighed heavily and looked up towards the window, trying to remember the last time he’d seen the sky so clear. It was a dramatic view, with the rest of the hospital gently silhouetted against it, illuminated in sections by the exterior lights. He drew his eyes across the scene respectfully, as though appreciating a particularly poignant painting, until he realised that from Jojen’s bed, there was a perfect view of his ward. It took him a few seconds to find his own window, his own room. From where Jojen lay, day after day, he would have been able to see it clearly, if he were awake. The thought was comforting. Then he realised that the light in his room was on, and it took him a while to understand why that was strange. They must have realised he was gone.

“I don’t have much time,” Bran said, tearing his eyes away from the window to look at Jojen once more. “As soon as you wake up, you need to reach me. Either in the dreamscape, or on there, or however you can.” He gestured towards Jojen’s tablet. Some curiosity in him made him reach over and light up the screen. Then he smiled.

The lock screen was his own face, and it was grinning back at him. It was a ridiculous picture that Jojen had snapped of them both, back in the playroom when things were easier. Jojen’s face was full of colour and life, his joy so real it seemed to radiate through the screen. Tucked just underneath the tablet was one of Sansa’s elaborate wedding invitations. Bran ran a finger over the elegant, gilded lettering.

He turned with tears in his eyes, back to Jojen. “Go now, Hodor,” he whispered. “I don’t want them to find you.”

“Hodor,” Hodor answered, and left obediently. Bran heard footsteps and light began to flood the hallway.

“I still really need your help, Jojen. My family’s still in danger,” Bran said, his voice raw was feeling. “More than that I… I miss you. Even without my powers and your visions and everything that’s happened since we met… I think I was _meant_ to find you. Or, you to find me. But this isn’t the way this is supposed to end. This might sound like me saying goodbye but it’s not. I won’t. I’ll look for you every day. You’ve just got to get through this and wake up. Please. Just wake up.”

He slumped forward to rest his sodden face on to Jojen’s limp and lifeless hand. He stayed there in silence until Osha appeared, looking genuinely terrified, to take him back to his bed. Of course she had known where to find him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This one goes out to the rest of the Brojen fandom, who are having a bit of a tough week over on Tumblr. Even with pointless hate being sent their way, they are practising solidarity and maturity. Keep fightin' the good fight, friends!

_Home is where the heart is._

It was a saying he’d heard often, one he’d always believed to be true. That was until Robb’s car pulled into the long driveway of their home at Winterfell and he didn’t feel the familiar swell of his heart that usually followed a long stay away. Only then did he decide he must have left half his heart behind, at the bedside where Jojen lay, motionless and hardly dreaming.

The feeling of displacement only grew worse as his eyes fell on the entrance to the grand old house. Where there had once been a decorative sweep of stairs that led to the front door, there was now a ramp, crude and concrete. It didn’t fit in with its surroundings, just as he no longer did. The grey slope led his eyes to the entrance, where balloons and banners bearing sentiments like ‘welcome home!’ adorned the doors and windows.

“Oh no…” Bran muttered, hardly realising he’d said it aloud.

“Just grin and bear it,” Robb said, pulling on the handbrake. “Mom’s just excited to have you home. She wanted to make it special for you. Smile and say your hellos for an hour, then I swear you can sneak away.”

Robb had to push the wheelchair up the slope to the house, joking how he’d have to build up some muscle if he was expected to do it every day. Bran forced a laugh and tried to stay numb to it, until the door opened and he was immediately overwhelmed.

He had forgotten the smell of home. His first breath of that scent was a sweet one – it was pine and warm stone and their laundry powder. But it was undercut with something else, smells of fresh paint and plaster that he couldn’t recall from before.

Then the people appeared, surging from every side. Leading the joyful charge was his mother, followed by the beaming face of Arya. Even his half-brother Jon was there, skirting the shadows as usual. The house staff had gathered, Vayon Poole and his daughter Jeyne, Jory, Rodrik and little Beth, Septa Mordane, Hullen, Farlen, and some new faces Bran didn’t even recognise. The sight of Sansa was a shock, until he also saw the Lannisters, huddled together in a corner and yet somehow still commanding the entire room.

One by one, people approached to kiss his cheeks, shake his hand and tell him how glad they were to have him home. As the crowd parted and disseminated around the room, Bran suddenly felt one burning stare fall upon him.

It was Rickon, sat on the bottom step of the staircase and looking at him with an expression Bran couldn’t translate. Hooked underneath Rickon’s arm was a dark, shaggy puppy that was staring at him with the same matched intensity, its pink tongue lolling heavily from its mouth. Bran waved Robb away politely, and – with some difficulty – pushed himself closer to where his little brother sat.

“Hi, Rickon,” Bran said awkwardly, not sure how else to begin.

Rickon didn’t answer, and Bran felt the knot in his stomach pull tighter.

“How’s your leg?”

“Better,” Rickon quickly said.

Bran gave himself a moment to gather the words he’d been mulling over for weeks. Once he found them, he couldn’t wait a second longer, in case he lost the nerve. “Look, I know it’s been a few months since we saw each other. Since… you know, things  _happened_. But I need to say it and I don’t care if the time has passed. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you got hurt. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. I’m sorry I was a lousy big brother. I wish I knew what else to apologise for, but the truth is I don’t remember what happened that day. I don’t even remember where we were that day.”

Rickon’s eyes shot up to look at him, though Bran couldn’t tell if the spark in them was accusation or fear. “The building site.”

That caught him off-guard. Suddenly, he sensed metal under the toes he couldn’t feel any more. “Wait, you remember? But Mom said-”

“I remember,” Rickon said with a determined nod. “Maybe I just didn’t feel like talking about it to them. They kept asking questions, and they wouldn’t let me see you.”

“You  _wanted_  to see me?” Bran felt a wave of relief wash over him. His brother didn’t hate him. In fact it sounded as though he was the only one Rickon was willing to talk to. And what was more, Rickon  _remembered_. Suddenly he had a thousand questions. “Listen, I need to know why we went to the building site that day. Do you know?”

Rickon hugged his puppy tighter. The animal squirmed but didn’t try to bolt. “To climb and play. We had fun.”

The climbing part sounded like him. Before his accident, he was forever worrying his mother sick by climbing on to rooftops and ruins, and he was comfortable with that fact. He bet that if he searched his memory, he’d probably been to that same building site a thousand times before he fell. But the one thing he knew for sure was that he only ever gambled with his own safety. He always went alone. “But why would I take  _you_  there?” he muttered, a wonder that escaped him aloud.

“You didn’t,” Rickon replied, brushing his russet curls away from before his eyes. “ _He_  did.” Rickon’s finger pointed, sharp as an arrow, over Bran’s shoulder.

Bran’s blood suddenly ran cold. A sharp recollection came over him, of a stranger in his dreams that stood behind him right before he fell, crushingly, to the ground below. That same malicious shape was behind him now, and Bran turned slowly in his chair with a prickle all over his skin.

He followed Rickon’s finger across the room. There stood Joffrey, a cocky smile spread over one half of his face. He was looking right back at them.

The sudden eye contact made Bran shiver and he turned away quickly. Rickon was quivering with fear, and his puppy was bearing his teeth in Joffrey’s direction. Bran was struck into silence, struggling with his confused and angry memories, when his mother came to sweep him away. She pulled him away from Rickon before either of them could say another word.

Still in a state of shock, he was wheeled out in front of everyone, Stark and Lannisters alike, as though he were a broken artefact out on display. All the while he could feel Joffrey’s cold smirk burrowing into him like an insect.

“Brandon,” his mother addressed him, but also the entire room. “I know I speak for everyone when I say that we’re so thankful to have you home. All of us have missed you immensely while you’ve been away, and we’re so proud of the bravery and strength you’ve shown through these last few challenging months. As a reward…” She paused to flash him a smile. “We wanted to introduce you to a new member of our family that I think you’re going to get along with.”

There was a soft clicking sound on the marbled floors. Robb approached, and by his side was a puppy, only slightly bigger than the one Rickon was clutching. Its fur was long and grey, dotted with silver flecks. Its eyes shone with a yellow knowing, and it padded towards Bran as though it always knew to who it must belong. The puppy – more  _wolf_  than dog – rested its head gently across Bran’s broken knees. Bran was lost for a moment, completely bewildered by the trust he could feel emanating from the majestic creature. The puppy stared up at him and, for the briefest moment, Bran didn’t feel so alone.

Robb knelt down beside him, ruffling a hand through the dog’s long fur. “He’s bright, this one. You can train him to help you around the house. He still needs a name, of course.”

“Summer,” Bran said almost immediately, transfixed by the burning suns that were his eyes. “His name is Summer.”

“A fine name,” Robb grinned, before patting Bran’s hand sympathetically and retreating to a rather intense looking conversation with Cersei Lannister. Her brothers were there, as always – the suave, well-suited Jaime and the odd, yet intelligent, Tyrion. Joffrey hovered between them all, a look of devilment on his pointy face. Joffrey caught Bran staring and he busied himself instead with stroking the soft fur of Summer’s head.

“I don’t know what Sansa saw in him in the first place,” Bran muttered to the dog. The fear in Rickon’s voice was still playing on his mind, and he looked for his little brother so they might talk more about that fateful day, But Rickon had vanished, and his puppy with him.

“What are you telling your new friend about me?”

Sansa swanned up to him, wearing an elegant gown and a smile that looked half-forced. She hugged him again awkwardly with his chair in the way and gestured for him to follow. She stopped at the buffet table. “Here, I thought you might have missed the taste of  _real_  food while you’ve been in hospital.” Her engagement ring glittered on her hand as she passed Bran a lemon cake.

Bran accepted gratefully, his stomach growling at just the sight of the thing. He took a small bite, searching up into Sansa’s face for any trace of the wounds he’d seen before. “Sansa,” he said in a hushed voice, conscious that most of the attention in the room was still focused on him. “Are you still going to marry him?”

Sansa threw a panicked look over each of her shoulders, as though checking for who might be there. Then she bent down to him and tried to smile as though they were having a perfectly normal conversation. “Of course I am, what would make you think otherwise?”

“The other day, on iiiRaven. You said-”

“That was all just a silly joke, Bran. A game. Do you remember?” She squeezed his fingers, hard and purposeful. The lemon cake she held in her other hand crumbled to pieces.

She was afraid. Even he could see that much. But ignoring the problem wasn’t going to save her, and Jojen’s warning words came back to him with a full and sudden force. “You can’t talk about it. Fine, I get that. But you’ve got to listen to me: there’s someone you need to be careful of. It’s a man, and I know it sounds ridiculous, but he has a dog’s face. That might not mean anything to you, but you’ve got to trust me. He and Joffrey-”

A shadow fell across his lap, where Sansa still held his hand. A cold chill of fear passed over his sister’s face as the man who appeared behind her began to speak. “Joffrey requests your presence, little bird. Come with me.”

It was worded like a question, but barked like an order. When Bran looked up to see the face of the man, he almost recoiled in horror. One side of his face was scarred and pocked, filled with little craters like the surface of the moon. They were old burns, and they had left one eye small and swollen. His hair had been eaten away by the flames, and he had tried to sweep over the remaining locks from his good side to disguise his terrible injuries. On the lapel of his tatty blazer, he wore the crest of the Clegane family – three vicious, wild dogs.

Sansa’s eyes, wide and frightened, softened into something altogether more obedient. A stiff smile tugged at the corner of her lips and she pulled away from Bran, leaving crumbs of lemon cake in his lap as she drew away.

Bran suddenly felt like he was drowning. Everywhere he looked, his family were ensnared by Lannisters – Robb locked in an intense discussion with Cersei; his mother offering refreshments to a disgusted-looking Jaime; Arya trying to make a joke with an ever-serious Joffrey; Sansa hanging weakly on to the arm of the dog-faced man. The Lannisters had his family in a chokehold, and they were ready to tighten that grip and crush them whenever it suited. He clung on to Summer’s fur as the room bubbled with danger.

He sought out Robb, his anxiety reaching a fever pitch. “Can you help me to my room? Now… please?”

Cersei cut her eyes at both of them and Robb tried to apologise. But before he could finish, she was stalking away darkly, evidently not pleased by the interruption.

Robb visibly flinched at her reaction, but he smiled to Bran regardless and took hold of the wheelchair. “Come on.”

Every step Robb took away from the party calmed Bran’s nerves. But when they suddenly turned right, away from the staircase, Bran couldn’t help but feel confused. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Wait and see.”

Robb pushed him to a familiar door. It had once been their father’s study. It had sat untouched since his death, a tribute to the man who had once spent hours inside its four walls. Bran remembered being smaller and knocking hopefully on the door while his father worked. No matter how embroiled in his work he was, Ned Stark always opened that door with a smile to greet his children.

But there was no knocking now, and no father to greet them. Robb grabbed the door handle that was surprisingly free of dust, and pushed Bran inside. What he saw made his insides shrivel.

His father’s old oak desk had gone. His bookcases, numerous and towering, had gone too. In their place was a bed, metal and busy with gadgets. The scent of old paper and hot wax had been replaced instead by a toxic smell of paint and cleaning fluid. Bran looked harder and started to see familiar things: his storybooks on the bedside table; his posters on the wall; his model kit dragon hanging lazily from the ceiling. That put the final nail in his fear.

“This is…” He started, clutching on to Summer’s fur as the dog came in beside him.

“Isn’t it great?” Robb said, mistaking his shock for something altogether different. “We’ve had people working around the clock to get this ready for you. Everything’s been adapted so you should be able to do your own thing while you’re in here. The bed has controls, and look, there are bars on the walls that will help you get around.”

“But my old room…”

“We knew you wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs anymore. A room on the ground floor seemed like the best alternative. Don’t worry, I brought all of your things down here myself,” Robb said, reaching up to tap the hanging dragon, sending its wings flapping in a frenzy. “It’s a bit plain at the moment, but you can decorate however you like. I promise it will feel like home soon enough.”

“What about all of Dad’s stuff?”

“It’s safe. Don’t worry, Bran – this is what he would have wanted,” Robb smiled. Then he helped Bran on to his new bed, and left.

It felt strangely like being back in the hospital, with the uncomfortable mattress and the plain white walls around him. He looked around his new room with tears in his eyes, knowing he’d never see his old room again, the way it used to be. It had been torn apart to make this, his new prison in a house he would never fully explore again. Everything had changed while he’d been away, and he could feel his memories of how things used to be trickling through his fingers like grains of sand. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to wish himself back to the hospital. He closed his eyes and tried to call out for Jojen with his mind, but there was nothing and no one except for him. He was adrift in loneliness, in a home he no longer recognised, the teeming sea around him infested with sharks that took the form of Lannisters.

As he lay, wrapped in his despair, something warm and wet touched his hand. It was Summer, running a rough tongue over his fingers. The dog climbed on to the bed and settled down beside him. He gazed up at Bran with his doleful liquid eyes and for just that moment, Bran felt better.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was walking. The world was desolate and bleak, and the only tree for miles around was withered and weather-beaten. The ground crumbled like Sansa’s lemon cake underneath his feet and the wind whistled in his eardrums. Isolation pressed in from all sides. He called out for Jojen, hoping this was where he might find him, but his voice echoed infinitely across the dry and endless land.

He was dreadfully alone. Then he heard soft footsteps behind him, and suddenly, Summer appeared at his side.

“How did you get here, boy?” Bran asked, ruffling the dog’s head. Summer’s fur felt warm and real underneath his fingers, and Bran knew he was really there, just the way Jojen had used to be.

The two of them travelled the empty land side by side, the only sound that of the crumbling ground on which they trod. Then it all began to fall away, just as it always did, and Bran was left teetering on the edge of the familiar cliff. No one awaited him on the other side this time. He decided to get it over with. There was nothing to wait around for there anyway.

Just as he stepped forward and off the precipice, Summer whined and pulled at his clothes. He stopped long enough to smile down at the pup. “It’s okay. It’s just a dream.” Gently he pushed the dog’s nose away and turned back to the cliff.

To his surprise, he found the world had changed. He was looking down on a building site and could feel metal beneath his feet. The place was plainly dangerous, with protruding steel bars, unguarded sharp corners and unfinished, lofty constructions. He stood on one of them now, the tallest of the hollow buildings, and he felt the shadow of the stranger fall across him. Summer growled. Bran was already falling – no, had already been  _pushed_  – but he tried to turn and see. He got brief impressions of a face, a long crooked smile, cunning blue eyes, a shock of pure blonde hair. Then it disappeared behind the cliff as Bran fell further. But he knew who he had seen. Wind rushed by him and for a moment, the panic was gone. The knowledge was a comfort, and though Summer was still barking far above, the fall could not have felt more serene.

That was before he heard the shouting. He hit the ground, woke up, had no time to recover. He was in his new, empty room and there was pandemonium going on just outside his door.

“Robb? Sansa!” He called out as loud as he could. “What’s happening? Mom!”

Some more scrambling, something that sounded like sirens came from outside the house. His door burst open and Rickon tumbled inside.

“It’s Arya!” he said in a voice high with panic. “She just collapsed!”


	10. Chapter 10

They wouldn’t let him visit for days. Arya had been taken to Riverrun Children’s Hospital – the very same place he’d just left. Bran insisted on being taken there on the fifth day after she was admitted. Robb had driven him to the hospital in near silence.

Bran could see his older brother was frayed around the edges. His beard went untrimmed, and his hair was on the wrong side of dishevelled. His shirt was buttoned up crookedly and he had bitten his fingernails down to the bone. This constant stream of family tragedy was wearing at him, as it was all of them. But Robb was the head of the family now, and had their mother and all his siblings to take care of, as well as his own marriage and barely blossoming political career. Bran wondered if he would even make it to the elections if things carried on this way.

Catelyn greeted them with a tired smile. She had been staying with Arya just as she had stayed with Bran at first. She looked exhausted in a whole new way.

“How is she?” Robb asked, as he pushed Bran’s chair through the hospital entrance hall.

“Better, but she’s resting now. Sansa’s watching over her, thank the Gods.”

“Do they know what happened?”

Their mother visibly hesitated. “They’re still running some tests. It’s hard to know for sure.”

“But we’ll know soon?”

“Soon, yes.”

Underneath his concern for Arya, Bran’s sense of nostalgia was growing. He felt as though he had been away for years, though it had been only days. Some of the nurses smiled and waved to him as they went, and he thought how odd it was that he felt more accepted here than he did at home. The corridors became familiar, and he began to see impressions of faces everywhere – Hodor, Della, Big Walder – Jojen. He tried to send out a tendril of thought to the psych ward, where Bran knew Jojen still slept. Nothing.

When they reached Arya's room, Robb and Catelyn disappeared to talk to a doctor, and Bran went in alone. Sansa, looking pale and heavy-lidded, smiled to him weakly as he entered. He wanted to say something, even just a word of greeting, but when he saw Arya lying beside her, the dreadful sight chased any words clean out of his head.

His sister was out cold, her skin beaded with sweat. Her short boyish hair was tousled all over the pillow, and in her sleep, her hands tugged softly at the bedsheets. Around her dry lips was a litany of tiny, vicious blisters.

"Poison," Sansa said quietly.

Bran looked at her sharply. "What?"

"It's poison. Someone must have slipped it to her at the party."

"But who?"

"You already know, Bran."

A coldness settled into his stomach. He did know. "Joffrey. And you're still going to marry him?"

"Of course," she said. It sounded like a reflex. "I mean, I _have_ to. If I don't marry into the Lannisters then Robb loses his one chance of an alliance with them. I'm the only hope he's got." She had tears in her eyes when she turned to ask, "What's happening to our family, Bran? First father, then your accident, and poor Rickon... now this."

"You're a part of this too," Bran said, with a confidence he almost wished he didn't have. "Sansa, they're bullying us. The Lannisters don't want our family in King's Landing and they think that pressuring Robb is the way to get us out. Have you looked at him lately? Robb's breaking because of all this. One more chink in his armour and..."

He trailed off, not wanting to think about the end of that sentence. A silence settled around them, both of them fixed on Arya's gently twitching face.

"Jojen warned me this would happen," he said after a moment. Sansa gave him a questioning look, and he continued. "My... friend. The one I mentioned before. He told me there were dark forces waiting to crush our family. He warned me about the dog-faced man. He told me all about my... potential. Just look how right he's been so far."

"What else did your friend say?"

"He told me that you shouldn't marry Joffrey."

"But how can we stop it?" Sansa asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

"I wish I knew."

Sansa stood suddenly, her face a picture of wavering determination. "Then let's go and ask him. Right now, you and me. He's still here, isn't he?"

"Yes, but..."

She didn't give him time to finish. She'd already grabbed hold of his chair and was wheeling him out into the corridor faster than he could argue. Jojen was undoubtedly still deep in his sleeping nightmare, but Bran didn’t have the heart to tell her that.

"Where to?" Sansa asked, not even slowing down.

"Psych."

A flicker of something crossed her face – was it doubt? But she didn't hesitate. Her quick stride through the familiar corridors was a world away from the careful creeping he had done as Hodor only days before. The speed invigorated him, and he found himself smiling with hope before they had even left the ward. His heart soared with the elevators as they ascended through the floors. Sansa's hand gripped his shoulder reassuringly as they waited, watching the numbers tick by in companionable silence. This was the closest he had been to Jojen in days. Even if he was still asleep, Bran would have been grateful to see the soft curl of his dark eyelashes against his pallid skin. But he held a secret hope, one that would find Jojen sitting up in his bed and smiling at them when they burst triumphantly through his door. Of course he would have been expecting them. And then he could explain how they, all three of them, were going to stop the Lannisters from devouring their family whole.

Adrenaline flooded through his veins as they neared the psychiatric ward and Sansa asked for Jojen at the desk. This was it. This was how they were going to win. Perhaps in the downtime from their impending victory, he and Jojen might have time to talk about other things that weren't to do with unexplainable visions or families in crisis.

"I'm sorry," the nurse said, and Bran's hope wilted in his chest. "Mr Reed has been transferred to another hospital."

"Which one?" Sansa demanded, all her usual politeness long gone.

"I'm afraid I can't give out that information," the nurse said, with a sad shake of her head. "Mr Reed came of age while he was in our care and so was moved to a more suitable facility. He'll receive adequate treatment there, far better suited to his-"

"Is he awake?" Bran spoke across her, a cavernous sense of loss opening up inside him.

"I really am sorry, I can't-"

"Fine," he said sharply. "Fine." He grabbed hold of his wheels and pushed his chair clear of Sansa's grasp. He went on pushing, away from the psych ward and his crushing sense of defeat. His eyes misted over with a thin film of tears and he almost collided with someone in his path. He was forced to stop, half-blind, and wait until Sansa caught up with him.

"It's okay, Bran. We'll figure this out," she said, but her voice was shaking. "We'll find an answer. The Lannisters can't win if we-"

"His nightmare came true," Bran blurted, and tears came with it. "He was so scared of being taken away and it finally happened. He's probably alone and afraid and I don't even know where to find him."

"You weren't to know, you can't blame yourself."

"But I _should_. I was so wrapped up in myself that I forgot about his birthday. That was the day they took him, you know. Like it could have been any crueller." He stopped, bit down on his lip. " _Gods_ , what will they do to him there?"

Sansa tried to tell him that it wouldn't be as bad as all that, that the doctors knew what was best for Jojen and that they would be taking care of him, but Bran couldn't keep away horrible visions of the asylum nightmare Jojen had showed to him when they first met.

"Now, little lord. What's gotten you so upset?"

A familiar voice brushed his consciousness and he looked up sharply to see Osha kneeling down before him. He flung his arms around her without a second thought. It took her a moment, but finally she hugged him back.

“Here,” she said into his ear, moving his hand to press something into his palm. It was cold and smooth, and as he turned it over in his hand, he realised it was a polished stone. “You might find you need this.”

"Now,” Osha said as she pulled away, leaving him staring into the stone’s black surface with a thousand unanswered questions. "We've got nothing to be sad about here, have we? Your lovely sister gave me an invitation to her wedding earlier. You must have told her I was your favourite, eh?" She nudged Bran's arm playfully and the tears began to slow. But it wasn't relief or comfort that stopped them. Seeing that gilded invitation in Osha's hand only gave him a sudden, lurching realisation.

With or without Jojen, they still had a wedding to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I heard you like Thomas Brodie-Sangster? Please check out my other ongoing fic, 'Fireflies & Empty Skies', a AU of 'The 100' with my TBS faceclaim, Alfie!


	11. Chapter 11

Bran was staring at Osha’s stone so intently that he didn’t hear the tapping at his bedroom door. He had been passing the treasure hand to hand for hours, hoping to somehow scry a glimpse of the future in its glassy black surface. But all he could see was his own face reflected back at him, tired and frustrated.

“You’re still hanging on to that rock?”

Sansa appeared at the doorway, a weary smile on her face. He looked up, surprised, and she added, “I did knock.”

He waved her in and she took her usual place sitting at the foot of his bed. They had spent many an hour this way, agonising both alone and together about how to stop the impending wedding. So far, they had nothing. In Bran’s case, the idea of the stone was blocking up his thoughts, and now it rarely left his grasp.

“Why did she give me this?” he asked, twirling the rock between his fingers for the thousandth time. He knew every bump, curve and imperfection by now. “What is it _for?_ ”

“What did you find on the internet?” Sansa asked, worrying at the edges of her skirt.

“Apparently it’s obsidian. It’s used for protection.”

“Then perhaps that’s all it is? She seems to like you, it makes sense that she’d want you to be safe. Even if it is with a useless old stone.” Sansa reached out for his hand then, and he took it, still clutching the obsidian in the other. “Listen, Bran. I don’t have much time. I’m leaving for King’s Landing within the hour.”

Silent alarm bells began ringing between Bran’s ears. “Already?”

“It’s time,” she said, resignedly. “I need to be there to oversee the final wedding preparations. We’ve lost.”

“No! No, don’t even think about giving up! I’m going to come up with something, I swear it. This isn’t over, Sansa.”

She hugged him then – a long, tight hug that tingled with sadness. “You’re such a sweet little boy,” she said before she left, dragging her hope at her feet.

Bran was suddenly alone with nothing but a growing sense of urgency, and the stone. He stared at it some more, urging it to give up its secrets. The stone stayed as silent and dark as the night outside, and when Bran fell asleep, he was still holding it with trusting fingers.

\--

When he dreamt, his eyesight was strange. Everything seemed sharper, yet slightly blurred around the edges. Though the land he walked upon was nothing but unbroken white snow, colours seemed dulled. His senses felt so heightened that he thought he might be able to smell every single snowflake.

That was when he realised he had four feet.

No, not feet – _paws_. He shouted in surprise but it came out more like a yelp. _He was Summer._ The colour of the fur on his forelegs was unmistakeable. Once he was conscious of his new body, walking became a challenge. He kept tripping over his too-many legs, nearly ending up snout first in the snow.

A familiar consciousness brushed up against his, primal and easy to read. It was Summer, and his appearance came like an offer of help. Bran retreated, let the pup take control and sat back instead as an observer, occasionally reaching out just enough to touch Summer’s thoughts. They were quiet thoughts, unassuming, but they rippled with undercurrents of chasing and territory and blood.

Summer led them artfully across the land, even as the dreamscape became rockier and far more treacherous. Sharp, jagged rocks jutted up from the snow drifts. Bran was sure he would have dashed his brains against them if he still had control of those four legs.

He felt Summer’s stomach growl even as they walked, and he got a quick impression of meat, raw, bloody and _alive._ Summer was thinking of the hunt, but there was nothing around for miles. This world was dead and desolate, the sun nothing more than a cold hole in the grey sky.

A snapping sound made Summer jerk up his head. Bran felt his long ears twitch in response, softly moving to try and detect the source of the noise. Though Bran got nothing from the pause, Summer obviously did. He set his course and lolloped carefully off across the snow.

_What is it, boy?_ Bran tried to think at the pup, but all he got back was a flash of excitement. Understanding suddenly that words were useless, Bran tried instead to send a questioning thought. But all he could think of was a giant question mark and that went misunderstood too.

Through Summer’s sharp eyes, Bran saw something rise up on the horizon. It started as a huge towering rock, bigger than the others they had passed. Then came more sounds – cracks like snapping bones, guttural, unintelligible growls and finally, a heart-stopping scream.

Bran’s panic rose. _Faster!_ he thought, thinking of running.

Summer needed no prompt. All at once he pushed off with his back legs and sprinted towards the huge rock. The pup’s hearing made the sounds seem closer than they were, and Bran had to wait a few agonizing moments before he saw a crowd of frozen, bony creatures at the foot of the rock face.

_Those creatures,_ Bran thought, fear running through him. He tried hard not to think about Jojen falling from the tree, right into their terrible, grasping hands. _But why are they here?_

Bran felt a brief wave of comfort come over him, and he realised that Summer must have sensed his fear. The next thought they shared was something close to _attack_ , and Summer ran at the icy monsters with his teeth bared back to the gums.

Bran should have stayed afraid, rushing headlong into that knot of creatures, but Summer’s bravery was infectious. As one, Bran and Summer howled out a battle cry and descended on the nearest beast.

Summer’s teeth sank into the forearm of one of them, and Bran felt the cold all across his tongue. If the thing had a taste, it was drowned out by ice, and Summer’s growling stomach was bitterly disappointed. Summer flung the creature away and moved on to another.

The crowd was several creatures thick but Summer tossed them aside like rag dolls. As one, boy and dog were lost and invested in the battle, until something pulled Bran’s attention sharply away. The teeming heads of the creatures bobbed and shifted like waves, revealing for half a second the shade of a face he would have recognized anywhere. His shock made Summer freeze and together they stared at the person pressed against the rock face.

It was Jojen. Even in this dream he was pale and frail. His eyes were wide with terror and his arms lashed out wildly, desperately trying to keep the creatures away. He was obviously over-whelmed, his back flat against the rock and a vicious scratch across one cheek.

The lapse in concentration was enough for Summer to take a hit. One of the creature’s knives scraped his ear and Bran cried out in pain. Summer yelped and recoiled. Then he gained his footing and tore back at his attacker. The creature’s leg came clean off when Summer bit it and the thing folded to the floor, still swiping the air with its knife.

_Jojen!_ Bran thought, as loudly as he could. _We have to help Jojen!_ He accompanied the idea with a picture of Jojen’s face, pale and afraid.

Jojen didn’t see the pup bounding towards him, too preoccupied with keeping the sharp blades of the creatures away. One of them – built like a giant from the old stories, with eyes like burning blue suns – was pressing in on him, a shattered sword in the remains of its hand.

_That one!_ Bran directed.

Summer barked and leapt right in. The bite landed on the back of the creature’s emaciated calf. It wasn’t enough to stop it, but it did turn to look, losing momentary interest in Jojen.

Bran stared up at the huge beast through Summer’s eyes. He had never felt so small. The sword swung down towards them and Summer danced aside. Then the pup lashed out, the curve of his claws catching the dull sunlight.

The creature had a bloody gash in its sword arm when Summer pulled away. Its expression contorted but it looked more furious than pained. It gripped its weapon and sliced the air. Bran felt the blade pass right by Summer’s snout. Summer was quick on the rebound and for a moment he gained the advantage. He leapt at the creature’s chest and managed to topple him over into the snow. Summer ripped and tore at the creature’s throat. Bran could feel the snapping tendons between his teeth. Summer carried on until the creature stopped moving, then wheeled around back to where Jojen stood.

Jojen was kicking back one of the monsters, but each time he pushed it back, it advanced once more. Over the shoulder of the creature, he was staring right at Bran. At Summer.

“Help me!” he called out.

_Go!_ Bran urged, and Summer obeyed.

Sinking his jaws around the creature’s hip bones, Summer yanked the monster aside and away. Two more came in its place and he made quick work of them too. Summer positioned himself in front of Jojen and snarled at the rest of the horde in challenge. If the creatures still knew fear, they didn’t succumb to it, and they fell upon Summer in a sudden wave.

Bran couldn’t tell legs or arms from paws and tails as Summer fought from the thick of the group. Then he started to recognise faces, weapons, old wounds.

_These are the same creatures_ , he thought. _Over and over again. They’re not dying._

A rock the size of a fist flew over Summer’s head. Summer followed its path to see what it had struck. With a dull thump, the rock reverberated off the chest of the towering giant, its throat nothing but a crater.

“They won’t stay down!” Jojen shouted from somewhere behind. He tossed another rock and this time the creature caught it in its enormous fingers. Then it swung back its arm and threw the rock at Jojen. Bran heard rock explode. He couldn’t see Jojen, but he had no choice now but to keep Summer focused on the fight. One false move and those knives could split Summer’s skin. The pup pushed forward, was immediately pushed back. He bit the finger off one creature and took a kick to the ribs from another. He scrambled on the rock to find his feet again, and another monster knocked him clean across the head.

The world of snow and limbs span violently and Bran felt the pain crackling like thunder through his thoughts. As the sharp rocks dug into Summer’s cheek, a blade levelled above them.

Lying on the ground and sure he was lost, that was when Bran realised that one of the rocks beneath him was black and crystalline. Bran found some energy.  He pulled them back just in time to see the knife bounce off the ground where their body had lain. The black rock lay before them and Bran stuck out a paw to unearth it from the snow. With more of the stone visible, Bran could see it was a blade.

_An obsidian knife_ , he realised. _We have to get this to Jojen!_

Summer sent him a thought that tasted like danger, but Bran had no time to hesitate. He snatched up the knife between Summer’s teeth and threw himself beneath the creatures’ legs. The monsters stumbled in confusion as he vanished and it brought him enough time to escape. He heard a knife whistle through the air and he knew that they had found him. He ducked underneath swords, danced around punches and scurried between legs until he caught sight of Jojen. The other boy had moved barely an inch along the rock face, the creatures still coming at him fast and thick from all sides. Bran tried to hurry, Jojen’s desperation clear on his face.

In his haste, Bran dropped the knife. He scrambled around the snow for a few heart-racing moments and a creature took the opportunity to strike. Bran abandoned the search, flung himself at his assailant just the way Summer had done. With four paws on the monster’s chest, he could see right into its ice-blue eyes just before he tore into its heart. Whatever was left there was dried and shrivelled, and Bran let it fall back into the cavity of the creature’s chest. He leapt away in time to evade a punch, and searched again for the obsidian knife.

He saw it skitter across the floor and jumped at it. He caught it, dashed away. The stone jarred his teeth.

Jojen didn’t see him no matter how hard Bran fought to catch his attention. He was trying to throw rocks again, and they bounced off the creatures, leaving them unharmed as they continued towards him. Bran shoved one aside, ran around another. Zigzagging through the peril. He found a way to Jojen’s side.

Jojen looked down long enough to see the weapon in Summer’s jaws and he frowned in confusion. Bran tossed it down at his feet, hoping the meaning was clear. Jojen motioned to grab another rock before he touched the knife instead. Once he had it in his hands he only stared at it tentatively, as though he wasn’t quite sure of its purpose.

Bran knew he had to take matters into his own hands. He grabbed the nearest beast by the leg and flung it at the knife. Jojen jabbed out reflexively and pierced the creature’s rotting shoulder. The cut was hardly fatal, but before their eyes the creature died, melting around the obsidian knife with a throttled cry. It met its end as a sodden puddle on the snow-covered floor. Jojen’s expression was one of confusion, then sheer triumph. The light flashed in his eyes, a renewed hope, and he struck out again with the knife. Another creature fell, quickly followed by another.

_Fight them!_ Bran exulted. _Fight your fear!_

Jojen’s strikes were clumsy and Bran could see he still needed help. He went back to flinging bodies aside, but now, he directed them _towards_ Jojen instead of away. As each creature fell at his feet, Jojen would sink his knife into its belly, its chest, its head, whatever was in reach. One by one the creatures dissolved into nothing. Bran sent more flying, Jojen would strike them. They established their own focused rhythm and soon the horde had thinned.

Suddenly a shadow fell over them and the icy air grew colder still. Bran whirled on his four paws, skidding in the snow, to see the giant marching upon them. Jojen seemed to shrink, and he grasped the knife now with two quivering hands.

_You know what to do,_ Bran tried to say with his wolf-like eyes. _You’re ready for this. You can do it!_

Jojen didn’t seem so certain, and for a full moment he remained frozen as the giant descended upon him. The sword was unsheathed, Jojen was well in range. The monster lifted up its arm, and Bran knew his time was up. He charged, snarling, managing to sink his teeth into its enormous forearm. The creature flicked him away as though he was no more than a fly.

The impact of the blow shot through him, reverberating like an earthquake through his core. In puddles of melted monsters he struggled to his feet in time to see Jojen lash out and miss by a length. The ruin of the creature’s throat rumbled in response to the attack, the ghost of a laugh. The jagged edges of its ruined sword glistened dangerously in the grey light.

_Jojen, now!_ Bran willed. _You’ve got to do it now!_

Jojen closed his eyes as the sword swept towards him, and thrust out clumsily with his knife. The blade caught the creature against its wrist and travelled through it like hot butter. The hand fell uselessly to the floor, sword and all.

With a gargled cry that sent flakes of ancient blood sputtering from its throat, the creature turned to water. Its skin came off in peels like teardrops, revealing the brittle bones and muscle beneath. Limb by frozen limb it melted to the floor, while Jojen watched in dull amazement. He’d done it.

Bran ran at him, forgetting that he wasn’t in his own skin. Jojen sank to his knees just as Bran fell into his lap. As Jojen wrapped his arms around Summer’s body, Bran could feel how he was shaking.

Jojen buried his face into Summer’s fur. His breath was warm and his tears hotter still.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, his breath escaping him in giddy gasps.

Bran tried to answer, but his words came out as nothing more than a growl. He felt like weeping. All this time apart from Jojen and all these things he wanted, no _needed_ to say – and he couldn’t speak a word. He turned Summer’s yellow eyes to look into Jojen’s and blinked slowly, purposefully, praying Jojen would understand the meaning.

“I know you, Bran,” Jojen said. “I’d know you in any form.”

Bran nuzzled Jojen’s neck gratefully, braver as a pup than he’d ever been as a boy. Jojen’s hands clutched at his fur like he was the last real thing in the world.

And suddenly Bran realised that he was. The dreamscape was fading, melting around them like the blue-eyed monsters around the point of the knife.

They were left suspended in nothingness, but together. The silence was all that needed to be said. Soon Jojen’s grip grew lighter and he too began to fade.

_Where are you going?_ Bran tried to ask. _Where can I find you again?_

But of course Jojen couldn’t understand. Bran’s pup-thoughts were lost in the space that appeared between them, as void and empty as the days they’d spent apart.

Jojen muttered something, but the words didn’t quite come out. Bran was sure from the shape of his lips that he had said, with some confidence, “I’ll see you soon.”

\--

Bran awoke, warm and itching all over his skin with the lasting memory of having fur. He flung his arms around, still lost in the fight they’d barely won. He felt the obsidian stone still tucked against his palm – Osha’s gift. It had likely saved Jojen’s life.

Bran reached for his iPad, clumsily unlocking it in his haste to check iiiRaven. Jojen was still offline, but Bran messaged him anyway.

_winterwolf789: Are you there?_

He waited. Nothing came.

_winterwolf789: Jojen, please. Tell me you’re awake._

He stared at Jojen’s greyed out name for a long time, hoping for it to change. He was still waiting when Robb came to gather him into the car. They were going to the wedding.


End file.
